


Sweet Disposition

by Jillypups



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anger, Drugs, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 72,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1513682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillypups/pseuds/Jillypups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rickon Stark had a rough start to his adolescence but a heart fierce enough to withstand it. His family doesn't see it, but loyalty is ultimately the thing that drives him most. His road is not an easy one, but it was the one given to him.</p><p>This takes place a little after the epilogue of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1449205/chapters/3050734">Hear Me Out</a>, and it’s the same universe, though it's viewed through lenses that aren't as rose colored as Sansa's.</p><p>Rickon and Shireen are the main pairing, but we have frequent sightings of Sansa and Sandor and Arya and Gendry. Ned and Cat and Bran and Jojen are around, too, and we will have a glimpse into Jon and Ygritte's life together. Robb's around too for a hot minute. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place a little after the epilogue of [Hear Me Out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1449205/chapters/3050734), and it’s the same universe, though it's viewed through lenses that aren't as rose colored as Sansa's.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Picset](http://jillypups.tumblr.com/post/117532301278/sweet-disposition-chapter-1)

 

Eight years ago – Nashville TN

He wasn’t sure if it was better or not, finally having fallen to the ground. The punches to the face had stopped, but the kicks to his back and stomach (when he wasn’t instinctively curled in the fetal position) had just begun. His eye throbbed, and he could not see out of it. He struggled to stand, and was knocked down with a particularly humiliating kick to the ass.

“There’s no big brothers or sisters to protect you now, huh little Rickie?” sniffed Walder, an older student from his brother’s high school on the campus across the street. Why that overgrown fuck was over here tormenting _him_ , Rickon wasn't sure, but he figured it had to do something with his brother's sexuality. So far they’d not really said much other than nasty names reserved for lady body parts, but with each beating they made sure to say something crass about Bran.

This was the third month he’d been cornered by these guys, though sometimes Walder brought Ramsay, or Donnel, who were bigger, and those guys were why Rickon had tried hiding a few times, unfortunately to no avail. So now he was trying to fight back, but every time, he found himself on the ground. This was the first time they'd lingered long enough til Bran got out of lacrosse or soccer practice, though, and Rickon was praying he'd show up soon.

He gritted his teeth, happy to note none felt loose, and made his second attempt to get to his hands and knees. Walder’s friend Alyn booted him in the gut, and Rickon belly flopped back to the ground of the parking lot. The knees of his uniform ripped; his mother would be pissed. Where the hells was Bran?

“Little rich bitch and his big powerful daddy, huh? Think you’re tough shit just ‘cause of him?” Alyn said, and Rickon glared at him best he could with one eye. Alyn sneered.

“Hey, you know what I heard, Al? I heard this guy’s sporty big brother’s a queer,” hissed Walder. Ah, there it was. Rickon snarled an obscenity, reaching out in vain to grab anything, his ankle, a leg, something to try and pull him down. Walder danced back, laughing. Alyn kicked him again.

“If he’s gay, he’s still stronger than you, you bastard,” spat Rickon, though it came out far less fiercely than he had intended. Walder squatted down, grabbed a handful of Rickon's overgrown hair, and punched him in the back of the head. Rickon saw stars. He wondered if he’d pass out soon.

Finally, Bran’s beat up old Volvo came up the school’s private drive, and he blared the horn to scare off the Frey boy and his jerk friend. Bran practically leaped from the driver’s side, slamming the door shut, and stalked over to Rickon’s tormentors. He was three years older than they were, and constant participation in sports had put muscle on his stocky frame, more muscle than the Frey and Haigh boys combined.

“Fuck off you two, before I show you what a _real_ beating looks like,” seethed Bran, arms puffed away from his torso. Rickon thought manically of birds with ruffled feathers, and sucked in a laugh. It tasted of blood.

Walder and Alyn scowled and spat choice words before slowly backing off; Bran was known to his friends as a pacifist, but his displays of bravado in the fields during games and practices made potential foes wary. Finally with a few flips of the bird, Walder and his crony turned tail and trudged down the driveway Bran had driven up, to cross the street back to their own campus.

“Gods, Rickon, what was that shit about?” Bran stooped, cupping his brother under the armpits and heaving him to his feet. Rickon staggered, wiped his mouth, spat the blood out. He had all his teeth; the day was not yet shot to the seven hells. “Was that the first time?”

“No. I think,” he said, wincing when Bran gingerly touched his black eye, “It’s because mom’s just beat out Mr. Frey’s bid for the whatever.”

“City Clerk,” said Bran, and he sighed. “The Freys are a bunch of backwoods idiots with too much money. There’s no way they’d beat out mom, not with the Tully name.” He picked up his brother’s backpack and slung his arm around his shoulders, guiding him to the car. “I’m sorry, Rickon. Send them my way next time it happens.”

“There’s not going to _be_ a next time,” Rickon said darkly.

 

The next time Walder Frey came skulking up the drive after class let out, Rickon was ready for him. He pulled out from his backpack the glass soda pop bottle he’d asked his mother for, as a special request, for a lunch time treat. He hid it behind his back, leaning against the solitary light in the parking lot, feigning nonchalance, his eyes hot as they focused on the looming figure of Walder. _He’s really just a skinny asshole, like me,_ thought Rickon. _If I were the same age, I’d beat him down with my bare hands. One day, I will._

“What’s up, mama’s boy?” drawled Walder, and Rickon was at a loss for words. He had four older siblings and a cousin living at his house; his parents had never had to drop him off or pick him up during his entire school career. Ah, wait, it had to be the politics things. RIckon rolled his eyes.

“Hey, Walder,” Rickon said, mocking the other’s southern accent. “Had sex with any farm animals, lately?”

“You little shit,” snarled Walder, a handful of paces away. He pushed up the sleeves of his uniform sweater, and hocked a nasty wad of spit onto the asphalt. “Need another lesson, huh?”

“Nope,” said Rickon, lifting the soda bottle just high enough for Walder to see. He slammed it against the pole behind his back, hearing it shatter. There was a hot feeling in the web between his thumb and forefinger, and Rickon felt blood. He brandished his new weapon and let Walder cast a shifty-eyed gaze to the school to see if any teachers were watching. Rickon didn’t give a shit one way or another.

“You don’t scare me,” stammered the coward, but Rickon had had enough. He didn’t wait for his foe to come to him, but lunged instead. Later, after two teachers pulled him off the guy, when Rickon was sitting in the principal’s office, he was informed that he was screaming at the top of his lungs as he stabbed Walder in the face with the broken bottle, that it had terrified Walder so badly he had pissed himself. _Good,_ thought Rickon. _Maybe that bastard will think twice next time._

“I know, Cat, I know,” Eddard said. “Trust me, I know. All the funding dollars down the drain, the newspapers, all the publicity. I think we'll need to scrap this run. But we can’t keep him in this school, and no other school will have him, not in this city. That’s going to be on his record until he’s 18.”

“What about… What about a, a, oh gods, Ned, should we send him to a facility?”

“A boot camp?!” Ned said, incredulous. He stared at his wife and thought of his youngest child. “Catelyn, he was bullied. Yes, his reaction was extreme, but he had been backed into a corner for months. Who knows how long it’s truly been going on?”

“They said the Frey boy was insulting him because of my beating him out for spot on the next ballot,” she said, wringing her hands.

“Don’t blame yourself, love.” Ned grasped one of her hands from her lap, bringing it to the top of the kitchen table, holding it tight. “But Rickon cannot go to a boot camp.”

“I didn’t mean a boot camp,” Cat said quietly, slipping her hand from his to re-clasp them in her lap. “They have… reformative schools. They even have a good one up in Maine, where Robb is now.”

Ned stared at his wife, disbelieving. “You’ve _researched this?_ Without me, without my knowledge? Are you that determined to get rid of him? Is this for you or for him, Cat?” he said angrily.

“ _He stabbed a child in the face with a broken bottle_ , _”_ she cried, sweeping up and away from the table, hugging herself defensively. “I don’t know how to fix that, I don’t know how to talk to him. My baby boy, screaming like a savage, stabbing some child.”

“Have you seen your boy lately, Cat? Covered in cuts, bruises, a black eye for a week! The Frey boy is not blameless.”

“He didn’t bring a weapon,” she replied, somewhat weakened. “How can my baby have done that?” And Cat broke down into sobs that wracked her body, left her weak kneed and trembling. Ned sighed deeply, full of sorrow as he held his wife. A few minutes later she was calmed down, and with a watery hope in her eyes, she showed Ned the brochures of the center up in Maine. He held his head in a hand the entire time, unable to bear all this new weight with just his neck alone.

 

Rickon and Bran were perched at the top of the stairs as their parents words filtered up, clear as bells, to where they sat. Both were hunched over, arms resting heavily on their knees, but only Rickon’s head hung low, chin to his chest.

“I’m sorry, brother,” Bran whispered. _How could he be sorry?_ Rickon thought. _Last three months of high school, a prom, that’s all he has before leaving for college in New Orleans, of all awesome places._ If anyone was sorry, it was Rickon, and Rickon alone.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said into the cavern of his hunched over body. He inhaled sharply and pulled his head up, forcing himself to sit up. “I guess I better go pack.”

 

Two months shy of his 14th birthday, Rickon found himself at a reform school in the countryside of Maine, with two large suitcases and his first pack of cigarettes, stolen from a gas station halfway there. The intake process was long and boring, and his parents and Robb wore nauseating masks of concern, mature investment in his healing process, and other bullshit the program director was spouting. The only interesting person he saw was a girl with a face half marred by slews of weird bumps and pockmarks, and he perked up as she walked by with a group of kids around his age. She caught his eye, raised an eyebrow, and mouthed “go fuck yourself.”

Rickon hoped they could be friends.

His first six months there were riddled with incident reports faxed to his father, several phone calls and a child and family team with his father on the phone and his mother, stony-faced, sitting in the conference room with him and the staff. After that, they said, Rickon calmed down. What he did was get smarter.

Luckily, he suffered no more physical attacks; while he didn’t necessarily make close friends with everyone, he also didn’t make enemies of them either. The potential threats he had at the start were bought off with some of those cigarettes he’d smuggled in.

The one person he became tight with was the “go fuck yourself” girl from the day he had his intake. They turned out to become more than friends, in the five years he spent there. Shireen Baratheon was her name, sent there by her harpy of a mother (“we have something in common,” Rickon had said), though her father was too stoic to come to much of an emotional defense, too distracted with a mistress. Her otherwise beautiful and clever face was marred on the side by chicken pox, a case so severe she was hospitalized.

“Why isn’t only on the one side? You have like zero scars or anything on the other side of your face,” he said as they shared a cigarette together during the night shift of one particularly inept employee.

“Nobody ever called the gods nice,” she said, and there was a bitterness to her voice that Rickon recognized and clung to, because it felt more like home than anything else had. “But Mel, my dad’s “lady friend” as she calls herself, once told me there’s only one hell, the one we’re in now. She’s a gold digger, and I hate her, but that does sort of make sense every time I look in the mirror.”

The only other real bright spot during his _education_ and _reformation_ was the head of the sports department, a tall, no bull-shitting woman named Osha, who, in his first class, made Rickon so worn out from a workout that he later threw up. Just as with Shireen and her take no prisoners attitude, that was something Rickon could respect.

They lost their virginity to one another when he was fifteen and she was sixteen, on a field trip to some horse ranch where the horses would help them unlock their feelings, and they had fumbled with each other in a stall while pretending to muck it out. Though it didn’t last long, it would forever be something he’d remember: the muffled whimpers and moans, the smell of sun and hay and beast, the sound of his name in his ear. All in all, he thought the horse ranch had helped unlock _something_.

The relative happiness lasted up until she left, a year before he did, and what warmth and thaw she had provided withered away and froze back up again, though she did email him and send letters every so often. She was headed overseas; her parents had divorced and her father had set aside a nice chunk of money for her, which she used to get as far away from them as she could. She told Rickon to visit, but he wasn’t sure if that would ever happen.

Shireen spent only three holidays with her family during the four years she had left at the facility, but Rickon opted out of all them. Robb visited him as often as he could, but he was a man grown, starting his own landscaping business, with a serious girlfriend and a handful of other excuses. Bran, though, Bran emailed every day, sent care packages on every wintermas and every birthday, and when Rickon’s 18th birthday rolled around, it was Bran in that piece of shit Volvo who came to get him.

Rickon threw his bags in the backseat and gave his brother a bear hug, both young men grinning. “Get me the fuck out of here, man, and don’t make me ever look back.” Bran did as requested, and even let his little brother smoke in the car.

“All right, so I’ve got good news and bad news,” Bran said when they were several miles down the interstate.

“Oh gods, they’re probably both gonna suck for me,” said Rickon, flicking his fifth cigarette butt out the window, watching in the rearview for the quick flash of orange ember on the gray asphalt before rolling up the window.

“Now, now, brother,” Bran said. “The good news involves money. We’ve all been set up with trust funds, and we all get them when we turn 25. You get what’s essentially an allowance until then. That’s the good news, Rickon! Money! Women! Cigarettes! As much um, oh wait, no booze yet. Well, you’ll get there,” and Bran glanced from the road to him, an earnest smile so open on his face that Rickon couldn’t help but smile back, though he rolled his eyes just the same.

“Bad news, Bran.”

“Bad news. Okay, well, you won’t get enough allowance to live on your own. A condition of the fund is that you live with mom and dad for the next year. Dad won the seat on the senate, by the way, so he wants to hire you on for web maintenance. The school--”

“I’m sorry, did you just refer to my prison as a school?” said Rickon, twisting in his seat to glare at his brother.

Bran sighed. “Ok, fine. Your _prison_ still sent your records to them even though you refused visitation. They saw how well you excelled in computer science, so he wants you to do his web design. Maintenance. Something.”

“Web design?”

“Seven hells, Rickon, I don’t fucking know. But you have a job, you have a place to live, you have an income already. Aside from not burning down the world with your entire trust fund, I’d say they’re all actually _good_ things.”

“I have to live with _them_. Bad thing.” Rickon fished around in his pack of cigarettes for another. This conversation was bumming him out.

“You act like you don’t remember our old house in Chicago. That place is a freaking mansion, man. I think you’ll be just fine.”

“Whatever. So, what about you? How’s the college life going?”

“It’s going… well,” said Bran a little too carefully. Rickon narrowed his eyes, remembered something that had always been in the back of his mind since his last beat down by Walder fucking Frey. “I think I’m uh, I think I’m going to go in for my master’s. It’s really nice there, I like it.” Too nonchalant. Rickon hadn’t spent five years in a reform facility without picking up on a few things.

“Did you meet someone?” Rickon said, teasing it out slowly.

“Um, sort of,” Bran said, checking his rearview and switching lanes for no reason other than something else to do.

“Hey. Bran.” Rickon said, ashing out the window and turning his head to look fully on his brother’s face.

“What?” Bran glanced at him nervously.

“You gay, buddy?”

Bran’s mouth fell open, and he swerved slightly. It had begun to rain, and the sudden loss of Bran’s concentration made them both swear under their breaths. Bran was silent for several minutes until they pulled over at a rest stop. He switched off the ignition and turned to stare at his brother.

“What—I mean, how— Ok, wait. Where did you get that crazy idea?”

Rickon looked back at his favorite family member, and thought about the truth. He remembered, clear as day, the feeling of Walder and Alyn’s boots and fists in his face and body, but more than that he remembered the hatred dripping from Walder’s mouth as he hurled that accusation at him, its barb aimed instead for his brother.

He could tell Bran the truth; remove the mantle that he’d worn, heavy on his skinny shoulders, all this time, and hand it over. Set himself free. But the thought of his sweet, open hearted brother wearing that weight, his strong back bent over with the guilt that Rickon knew he’d feel, sickened him to his core. So Rickon just grinned, and lied to his big brother.

“I happen to have incredible gaydar,” he said, inhaling a final drag off his smoke before cranking open the window and tossing it out into the drizzly gray northeastern afternoon. Bran sputtered a laugh, and they sat there for an hour, at least, discussing Bran’s boyfriend that no one else knew about, how he had fielded questions from his mother about the pretty southern girls in Tulane, and how last wintermas Jojen had come home with him, and no one had been the wiser.

That night, at the first of two hotels they’d share before arriving home ( _what the fuck is home, anyways),_ Bran bought a twelve pack of skunky beer, and they got silly drunk together watching crappy Mtv shows and using Bran’s cell phone to text their brother and two sisters that Rickon had “sprung from the clink,” an expression he insisted on thought it had made Bran punch him in the arm for being so stupid.

 _All right,_ Rickon thought, half asleep, half-drunk as Bran brushed his teeth in the dingy bathroom, switching off the light and staggering, laughing, to his bed on the other side of the room. _So maybe_ family _is home._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Picset](http://jillypups.tumblr.com/post/117534906928/sweet-disposition-chapter-2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rickon is proving a worthy challenge to write for. It was fun mentioning him in Hear Me Out as this unpredictable creature, but delving into him has brought up so many conflicts of feelings and desires. I hope you guys like this chapter. I had to completely scrap the first draft and rewrite it. He's an odd duck, and I want to cuddle him.
> 
> Edit: We have a SanSan sighting this chapter
> 
> Also check me out at jillypups.tumblr.com, I post updates and I've got some dreamy pictures of my headcanon for Rickon. I'm trying to hunt down Bran and Arya (since Gendry's actor is older in GoT I'm going with him).

November, Tuesday night, 11:55pm

 

When Rickon had moved back home, he wanted nothing to do with his old room. It was haunted with bruises and lies and a family that let him down. He had stood in the doorway at 18, gazing blankly into a room where he’d cried, rarely laughed, played video games and talked to the few friends he’d had on the phone. No. This would not do.

Yet he wasn’t so cliché to take over the basement or redecorate the attic, hole himself up like some troll or hermit. So instead, he took Arya’s room, a hollowed out husk of leftover posters, concert ticket stubs and a stash of Manic Panic hair dye jars in a plastic bag in her walk in closet. He found an old bong, and had laughed to himself over it for days.

Over the past two years he’d slowly transformed it, keeping only her Rage Against the Machine and Pixies posters, more out of an homage to her than anything, and for last year’s wintermas he’d presented her with a small notebook, each concert ticket adhered to its own page, every other one or so smudged with a color of her old, gloppy hair dye goo. She’d smiled the softest smile he’d ever seen on her, though he’d been gone awhile, and she hugged him so tight he thought he’d pass out.

He’d kept the bong.

Now it was a room that was perfectly suited to him, thanks to his parents wisely deciding he needed something that was _his_ , after five years in a _facility_ and not a home. He’d gone to Home Depot, bought the paint, hated the paint, bought new paint until it was perfect, some color between blue and gray thought it also had a warmth to it that appealed to him.

The same wintermas where he’d given Arya her tickets, but withheld her paraphernalia, Sansa had given him a series of photos of cacti she’d taken in Tucson, and he still had them on the wall above his bed, a set of nine, all black and white save for the middle one, with thick black frames. Despite what had happened out there to his sister, they were one of the coolest gifts he’d ever received, and they were from her, and so they stayed.

His desk and laptop were in the corner, and aside from that, it was a relatively Spartan room compared to the cacophonic storm of color and action and vibrancy that was Arya’s. His parents had been pleasantly surprised to see such a reserved redecoration, and had assumed that if anything, his room would be more chaotic than Arya’s, but Rickon saw it was just another way they didn’t understand. She was sound and fury inside and out, but Rickon preferred to hold those things dear, private and close to his heart.

 He was at his desk now, surfing the internet, when his inbox flickered to life. He closed the window he was in and pulled up his gmail, smiling faintly when he saw who it was from.

 

[Scarface22 @ gmail](mailto:Scarface22@%20gmail.com)

Subject: Bonjour motherfucker 

Hey fellow inmate,

Sitting here about to go to Carcassonne for a day tour. Montpelier is nice, and close to a lot of cool stuff. France has been fun but I’ve been here for months now, and I think I need a change. My accent is still shit. No clue where to go next, though. My uncle’s been roaming around the US with his paramour for a while, maybe I’ll go meet him. As far as unwed lovers go, Loras is pretty cool. Mel can’t hold a candle to him.

What’s up with you in the frigid north? I bet you’re freezing your ass off right now. It’s chilly here, but not so much than I can’t rub your face in it. Dating anyone? There was a Frenchie named, wait for it, Pierre, but I just can’t hang with a guy whose ass I could kick, you know? Plus he kept looking at me with those Poor Scarred Girl eyes, and you know how I feel about that crap.

Anyways, the real reason I’m writing this, aside from flaunting my fabulous lifestyle, is I had a pretty cool idea. I know how you feel about leaving any definable marks on your body, but I had a thought for a shared tattoo. I actually already got the first one, so it’s on you to make it a true work of art.  And it’s up to you to get whatever you think the answer is, but considering the design, I’m sure you can think of something.

So here’s the picture.

Love you, bitch,

 Shireen

 

Rickon, unbeknownst to him, had been smiling the entire time, and when he finally opened the picture to see what exactly she’d done to herself, he was greeted with a side view of her naked torso, a forearm draped carelessly across her breasts, though it did little to quash his imagination. His smile dissipated into a sigh. A drape of light brown hair was over her shoulder, and he noted how long it had gotten; the tips brushed the fingers of her hand that cupped her right breast. On her right side, on her ribs, a black birdcage was done in fine, scrollwork design. It made him think of Tim Burton, the Victorian era, graveyards. The cage’s door was open, and a single yellow feather drifted along the bottom of the cage.

He leaned far back until his chair would go no further, and gazed at her photo. He knew this body, had known it a handful of times when he was a teenager, but he still took time to recommit every inch to memory. She wasn’t so skinny anymore that her ribs poked out, but she was definitely fit and flaunting it; all that walking around overseas, likely. He imagined Pierre, faceless save for a greasy mustache, maybe a beret, tussling with her in the sheets. Strong Shireen. He’d likely petted her pockmarks, thinking himself sweet, caring, selfless and generous. Rickon grinned darkly, imagining her kicking him to the curb.

The tattoo itself, once he tore his eyes from the rest of her and actually focused on it more closely, was fine work. He’d have to hunt down the best artist in Chicago to measure upto it, but first he needed to work on what he’d actually get.

He glanced at the clock; well past midnight now, and he had to wake up early for work the next day, but there was no way sleep would claim him now. Her email and its attachment had revved him up, casting a challenge to him both mentally and physically. He knew it had been her intention, and that knowledge intrigued and delighted him. It was either sketch tattoo ideas or masturbate to her photo, but while the former would calm the mind and the latter calm the body, neither would scratch both itches.

 Rickon was torn.  

The next morning he drove to work, but halfway through his commute he got a text. Impatiently he prayed to the Smith for a red light, swearing he’d not fuck around on the internet at work that day, and soon after he was granted his wish. He flicked open the message and glanced at it, and a surge of indefinable feeling washed over him.

                        Group MMS: Ned Stark, Robb, Rickon, Bran, She-wolf, Jon Snow

                        Sandor: LB did it. Baby boy Bryon, 8lb 9oz. Long labor, but good. If you can, come visit but be quick.

                        I’ll not have her overtired. 8th floor. Room 212b

 

“It’s safe to say they love him,” Sansa said dreamily of her family’s reaction to the baby. She was stroking Bryon’s cheek with the side of her finger, gazing down at him as if she’d known him her whole life. The babe was asleep once more, snug against his mother’s breast, swaddled tight like a little glow worm, but Sansa refused to let a nurse take him to the nursery. “I’ll sleep later,” she’d said, and Sandor had panicked slightly, inwardly, when the nurse smirked and said “We’ll see about that.”

He was finally sitting in the armchair beside Sansa’s bed, more upon her insistence than anything, and he realized how bone weary he felt. The adrenaline and surge of fear, love, adoration, terror as he’d met and held his firstborn son had carried him, but now he reviewed all they’d been through: a labor that had started Sunday and just ended this morning, without any pain medication for his poor girl; having to stand there helplessly, unable to ease her pain, hurry the process, do _anything_ but let her squeeze his hand and scream every obscenity she knew, and offering colorful options when she ran out; then an hour long visit with a room full of Starks and a very uncomfortable looking Gendry. He rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes, feeling far older than he truly was.

“I’m sort of sad that Rickon didn’t show up, though,” Sansa said, and though she tried to hide it, Sandor heard the hurt in her voice. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will away the dried out, exhausted sting, and opened them, sitting up to reach out and grasp her shoulder lightly. She turned to him, face drawn.

“He will, Sansa. In his own time, he’ll come.” Rickon was his own beast and walked to his own beat. Sandor just wished he would share it with others from time to time. As unpredictable as Rickon could be, Sandor too had been a lone wolf, before Sansa and now Bryon. But the youngest Stark was still unclaimed by either convention or the desire for it. He was a lost ship on a rough sea, the design of which was only partly his making.

She sighed. “It’s been two years and I don’t know if he’ll ever truly forgive us.”

“First off, he has nothing to forgive _you_ for, nor your brothers and sister. It was your parents who decided to send him there, and if his anger is directed anywhere, trust me, it’s them and not you. Secondly, he loves you and your siblings.”

“I never went to see him,” she whispered, and Sandor wondered if she’d been beating herself up for that the entire time her family was here cooing over the baby, her youngest brother’s absence eating away at her.

“Aye, well, from what I’ve heard, he made no requests for visits either. Denied your parents, and refused to go home.”

“He’s right,” said a voice from the doorway. “I never asked anyone to come.” Sandor and Sansa looked up, conspirators caught mid-plot. Rickon stood there, eyes unreadable, his beanie in his hand, hair a mess, cheeks red from the cold. Sandor wondered if he’d walked from work in this cold.

“Rickon,” she breathed, and her face was a flood of emotion. Tears welled in her eyes, and she tried to sit up as carefully as possible so as not to wake Bryon. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re here.” And Sansa burst into tears.

“Ah, fuck,” Rickon said. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have--” and he took a step back, rubbing the back of his neck. _A wild animal caught trying to have a go at domesticity_ , Sandor thought.

Sandor stood swiftly, going to his soon to be brother in law. “Nonsense, mate, come here and don’t worry about it. She’ll be crying like this for a while yet.” Sandor leaned in. “Hormones.” Rickon shot him a look that suggested anything to do with childbirth was something he didn’t want to know, and Sandor nodded, understanding. He felt like he’d been to war with what he’d seen. “Go on, then, go see your sister and nephew.” _My son_ , he thought proudly.

“Hey,” he said awkwardly as he approached the bed, shoving the beanie in the back pocket of his jeans. Sansa tilted the baby so that he was more upright and Rickon could see him better. Nowhere near Sandor’s own height, Rickon was still over six foot, and so he crouched down by the bed, his face at just about the height of the baby in Sansa’s arms.

“This is Bryon Benjen Clegane,” she said, and Sandor’s heart swelled through the fog of fatigue, full of pride over his boy, his woman, his family. He watched as Rickon lifted a tentative finger, reaching out, touching the swaddled baby where his feet should be. “Ric, you should hold him,” she encouraged. “He’s asleep, and all bundled up, snug as a bug.”

“No way,” said Rickon, eyes wide with terror. He stood up abruptly. Sandor rolled his eyes, walking over.

“Come on, tough shot, hold the newest member of the family.” Sandor wasn’t sure, but as he approached to take Bryon from his mother’s arms, he thought he saw Rickon sneer when the word “family” came out of his mouth. Sansa was right about one thing; there was still no forgiveness there. But Rickon didn’t balk when Sandor turned towards him, chest to chest, Bryon between them, and he lifted his arms in awkward mimicry of how Sandor’s were, taking the baby willingly, though shakily.

Sandor stepped back and regarded the scene; there was a look on Rickon’s face that was almost indescribable; wonder was there, yes, and fear, naturally, for a boy who’d never held a baby before. Sorrow, too, a bit, but there was more. Then it hit him. _Ah,_ thought Sandor, a bit uneasily. _That last one is rage._

He was not a gym rat, by any standard definition, but he relished in the release he got from activity, and today he found he needed it greatly. Rickon would hit the weights from time to time, do a HIIT workout here and there, but that was too boring, too tame for what he needed now. Long ago he’d found the pleasure in attacking the punching bag, so he wrapped his hands and went out on the floor.

Earbuds in, he switched songs to a particularly angry one and went to town on one of three punching bags towards the back of the gym. He’d forgotten to secure his hair back, and though it was shaved on the sides, the stuff on top and in back was overgrown, hanging over the sides now, and it flipped in his eyes on every other punch. He’d have to sweat more to get it stick back, and so he whaled against the bag, bringing his elbows back before each strike, twisting his chest to draw all his energy and hate and anger back before slamming his fists into the bag.

Occasionally he kicked, whacking the bag with shins that had long ago grown used to such a beating, but mostly he stuck with upper body, elbows and fists, and always he saw Walder Frey, Alyn Haigh and his brother Donnel, Ramsay Snow. Sometimes he saw his program director, and rarely his parents, but usually that made him break down, and he’d find he couldn’t go on afterwards.

After an hour he’d finally exhausted himself, and sat wearily on a bench in the locker room, arms resting on his thighs, head bowed as he let his breathing regulate. His hair was completely slicked back with sweat, and he thought with grim satisfaction that maybe it was the best sign of a good workout.

Looking down at that innocent baby’s face had brought all this out of him, and when the usual feelings of anger and resentment had taken him over, he had been terrified. He had left shortly thereafter, clumsily transferring Bryon back to his sister’s arms before sputtering some excuse or another. Work had been a haze, as all he could think of was feeling hatred while holding a baby.

Now, his body worn out and his mind calmed, he could go over more rationally what he’d felt. Sadness. Anger. Abandonment. He had been a baby, too. His parents’ last, the youngest, the one who was supposed to be coddled and pampered, from what he’d heard from other kids. Instead he was forgotten, passed off to older siblings to be driven to the school, to the mall. Robb had fed him dinner more often than not while both parents worked full time political jobs. Sansa had given him baths. Bran had driven him to school.

And then he was sent away to the north like some criminal. But he’d been a baby too, as innocent as Bryon. Even at 13 he had still just been a kid, but he’d been cast out just the same. Rickon sighed and sat up, checked the clock on the wall. Almost 7pm. He always stayed out past his parents’ dinner, and usually ate closer to nine. They’d be eating now. He’d shower here, go grab some beers and head home afterwards.

Later that night, his parents ensconced in the den, Rickon sucked down an uninspired dinner and went out for a frigidly cold cigarette and icy beer by the pool, covered now for winter. The wrought iron chair was absolutely freezing against his ass and the backs of his thighs, despite the two pairs of fleece and flannel pants he’d donned just for this purpose. He shivered, lit another cigarette, and scowled into the blackness of the backyard beyond the pool. It was time to move out of here.

The sliding door opened; Rickon glanced up and his father’s head poked out. “Rickon? We’re going to bed now. Lock up after you come in ok?”

“Yep,” he said, returning his attention to the cigarette.

“We missed you at the hospital today,” Ned ventured. Rickon exhaled smoke sharply, sat back even though the additional contact of cold metal sent him shivering. He turned dead eyes to his father.

“I didn’t miss you.” He drank the rest of his beer, eyes on his father. Ned sighed, and his head disappeared into the darkness of the kitchen, and the door slid shut. “I haven’t missed you in years,” he whispered to the closed door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tattoo Shireen got, and the tattoo Rickon will design, is based off a dear friend's amazing art she got done (both on her own body) that is one of the most awesome tattoo ideas I've seen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Picset](http://jillypups.tumblr.com/post/117542751443/sweet-disposition-chapter-3)

December, Monday morning, 9am

 

Cat didn’t know what to do with herself. Rickon had spent the entire weekend packing up his room and transferring it to his new studio in Lincoln Park, everything meticulously and perfectly ordered. She’d think of her rowdy boy and wonder where he went, and each time she remembered.  _You did this to him. You sent him away, and he’s not your little boy anymore._ She wondered how deeply that truth ran, and if he had ever been hers at all.

His car, well, Sansa’s old Jetta, was parked out front, and she was standing in her room, keeping watch from above and within. Always withdrawn now, when it came to him. If she tried with him, made any overture, he’d snap at her, call her “woman” and use other ways to further alienate her, to push her away from the role of mother. She tried to remember the last time he’d called her mom.

She heard the front screen door slam and soon saw Rickon, another two boxes stacked one on top of the other in his arms, come down the front porch steps carefully. He arranged them in the backseat, adjusted them to his liking and turned on his heel towards the house again. He was wasting no time in his escape.

It had come entirely out of the blue two weeks ago when he came home right after work. He always stayed away until they’re were nearly ready for bed, and even then he hung around at the edges. But that evening he’d come in from the garage and without even dropping his stuff off in his room, he’d walked right into the kitchen, sitting at the table where she and Ned ate when it was just the two of them. He’d sat between them, setting down on the table a bag of takeout and his car keys.  _I make you a plate every night,_  she had wanted to say, to plead. He had glanced to her perfunctorily before looking to his father.

“I found an apartment in Lincoln Park. It’s a big studio, and I can afford it. I’ve already put the deposit down. I don’t need help moving, but I’d like to take a week off of work to move in, go buy some furniture and get the utilities switched over.”

Just like that. A rehearsed monologue, a severance of ties that had never been retied in the first place. She could practically see him strike the match and toss it onto the broken bridge of their relationship. Ned had listened, and when Rickon had finished, her husband had simply looked at their son, nodding his head once.

“Is it suitable?”

“I wouldn’t have put money down if it wasn’t,” Rickon stated. “Can I have the week off?”

“Did you put in your PTO request?”

“I will tomorrow.”

“As long as you have the hours saved up, I don’t see why not.”

“Unless you count five years at Skagos Reformatory, I’ve yet to take a vacation in my life, so I’m sure I’ve earned the hours.”

And that was that. He’d grabbed his food and keys, rummaged in the fridge for a beer. To her dismay, he took the remainder of a six pack to his room. They’d met eyes before he left the room, a challenge lit up in his bright eyes, but he did not speak to her.

Now he was moving out. She wasn’t sure if it would be better or worse, without him around. He was a constant reminder of her failure as a mother, each time she saw him, each time he glowered at her and scowled like he was still a teenager. And she did feel like Skagos had been a mistake, in the end. At least keeping him there for so long had. But they’d said he needed it, that he was growing and thriving and to move him would be a detriment to his improvement. She wondered how much of that was the greed talking, and not the therapy, now.

In Nashville, his principal had shown them the pictures of the Frey boy, his face a nasty mess of small stab wounds from the bottle, the bottle he’d begged from her.  _Please mom, I’ve been really good and I even got an A on my geography test._ He’d looked at her so pleadingly, so earnestly, even with his little eye all bruised up. A big toothsome smile. All of it just a ruse to exact revenge. It had given her sleepless nights for weeks afterwards, and she had a feeling that little boy would haunt her dreams tonight, too.

But to have him gone felt so final. She had tried and failed to reconnect with him after he turned 18, a young man hardened to the world around him, but at least he was _here_ with her, at least he had acquiesced to their terms. And he had stayed beyond that initial year under their roof. She had taken that for a sign of hope, but now she realized it was just another ruse, another tactic, another soda pop bottle.

He came back out again, and Cat pressed her forehead against the chill of the window. He had a huge armload of clothing, still on its hangers, and her heart bled with desire to help him, to at least put them in garment bags. There was the expensive suit he’d worn to Jon’s wedding, and now it would be sitting on top of boxes in a cigarette-stained car. She found herself crying in mute misery, and she wished she’d asked Ned to stay home with her, so she didn’t have to watch Rickon leave them again by herself.

Her heart jumped into her throat when Rickon suddenly tilted his face up, looking right at her. She realized with a cold thrill that he probably knew she was there the entire time he had been loading his car. He stood there a few moments before sticking a cigarette in his mouth, cupping his hand around it as he lit it against the wind ( _Rickon against the odds,_ she thought sadly, knowing she’d been the one to stack them so high against him). He inhaled, the wind sweeping away the smoke and the warm puff of his breath with it, gave her a military salute, and turned to get in the car, to drive away from her.

Catelyn sobbed.

 

“How’s the new place?” Podrick asked as he set his drink down and slid into the booth across from Rickon. They were in an old bar whose regulars were closer to his dad’s age, but the drinks were cheap and it was just a few blocks away from his apartment. _My apartment._ He grinned.

“It’s aces, man,” and he tapped Pod’s cocktail glass with the butt of his beer. He’d spent the entire day painting the place and putting his small amount of belongings in order. Despite it being just a room and a kitchen, Rickon had found he needed a lot more furniture. A bookcase, table, and some chairs for starters, plus an entire kitchen of shit he had no idea he’d need. Toaster? Microwave? He hadn’t given it a second thought, signing his lease, but now he realized how much he needed. He couldn’t afford take out forever.

“Right on,” Pod said, glancing around the place as he sipped his jack and coke. “Gods, man, this bar is a dive. There’s not a single female here,” he said, somewhat dismayed. It was true; the only companions any of the men had were their parkas.

“I know, but it’s too cold to go _out_ out, plus it’s just a Monday. You working tomorrow?”

Pod was. He worked as a personal assistant for the owner of Tarth Outdoors, a huge camping and hunting outfitting store downtown, wildly out of place amongst all the asphalt and mortar. Rickon was a city kid but as a boy he had always enjoyed camping with his brothers, and so he had a cheerful sort of envy when it came to Pod’s source of employment. A light bulb flickered to life in his head, and Rickon sat back, studying his friend.

“You guys doing any hiring over there?” Pod frowned.

“We have a couple of spots open on the floor but no offense, buddy, you don’t exactly look the outdoorsy type.” Rickon had to laugh, because it was so painfully true. Podrick, on the other hand was the ideal, strapping young man who looked at home cleaning a shotgun or setting up a tent even though his job kept him in a suit behind the scenes.

“No, I don’t. But I don’t mean in sales, I meant in your I.T. department.”

“Hmm. I don’t even know if we _have_ an I.T. department. We have one guy who comes in for a couple of hours, a few days a week. I think we subcontract it out.”

“Wanna do me a favor and talk to your boss about it?”

“I’ll do that,” Pod said, sitting forward and slugging back a swallow of his drink. “Yeah. It’ll make me look progressive,” he grinned.

“Thanks, man,” said Rickon, and he grinned back.

They had a couple more drinks and played a game of pool, Rickon eking out a victory after Pod sank the eight ball too soon, and were feeling warmed enough from the alcohol to consider hopping to another place, despite it being a frigid Monday, when Theon Greyjoy, of all people, strolled in like he owned the place.

“No shit,” said Rickon, mouth open from shock. He’d not seen Theon since before he went to Skagos, back when Robb listened to rap music for about five minutes and thought himself a hard ass.

“What? Oh for fuck’s sake, that asshole,” Pod said over his shoulder. “Let’s get the hells out of here before he sees us.”

Too late. Theon caught sight of them in the back of the bar by the pool table, and his face broke out into a wide, toothsome grin. “Pod! And Rickon, my man, look at you all grown up.” He turned back to the bartender, leaning over as they spoke in undertones. Theon slapped his hand into the bartender’s, clearly slipping him something before they drew their hands apart, palm to palm. Pod sighed.

“I’m out of here, man, I can’t handle this skeevy fucker,” Pod said. He pulled on his thick coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck and all the way up to his nose. Theon approached them and tried goading Pod into staying, but the latter man just rolled his eyes at Rickon and stalked out of the bar.

“So, you’ve sprung free, huh?” Theon grinned, a cold dead thing that didn’t reach his eyes. “I spent some time away too, though it was kind of a different sort of place,” and Theon winked, as if making some big joke.

“Yeah? It was jail, from what I heard.” Theon laughed, and Rickon began to see Pod’s point in leaving. He slipped into and started buttoning up his thick wool overcoat. He took out his phone, pretending to check messages, trying to look occupied.

“Look, man, it was nice to see you and everything, but I gotta hit the road. Early day tomorrow,” he said, but Theon was in his face, the toothpick in the corner of his mouth bobbing as he chewed on it.

“Listen up, you uh, you need anything recreational?” Theon whispered, and Rickon turned his face to avoid the other man’s rank breath. Maybe he _should_ quit smoking.

“No, I don’t,” said Rickon, though he thought instantly of Arya’s bong and how long it had been since he lit up. Theon snatched the cell phone from his hand, and began typing. “Hey, what the hells?”

“Here’s my number. If you ever need anything, weed, coke, some molly, just give me a text, okay?” Theon turned the screen to show Rickon his contact information. Rickon rolled his eyes. It was listed under I AM THE KRAKEN.

“Thanks but no thanks,” Rickon said, plucking his phone from Theon’s grasp before clapping his hand on the man’s shoulder as he walked by. “Try to stay out of trouble, pal.”

“Hey man, tell that to her! She can’t get enough of me,” he said, stretching his arms out to the sides, a cackling laugh rattling in his chest. Rickon shook his head and headed out into the cold.

 

 _Sansa should be the one doing this instead of staying home with her family,_ Arya thought as she strolled behind Rickon in the kitchen section of Target. He picked up a ladle, frowned, put it down. _This is going to take forever._ It was the middle of the week and her baby brother was lucky she had the day off. She was working doubles at the restaurant to prove that just because she was new, she wasn’t scared of hard work. Arya was confident she’d be running the place in six months, if she could avoid boredom until then.

“No, just—Rickon, stop it, put that down,” she snapped, taking the zester from him and hanging it back on its hook. “Just give me the cart, okay? You are a fish out of water.” She bossed him aside and snatched two large serving spoons (one of them slotted), a whisk, the ladle he’d put down and a pair of rubber-coated tongs, tossing them into the belly of the cart. She pushed the cart further down and briskly filled it with a colander, a set of three mixing bowls, a salad spinner and a cheese grater. Next was the set of four places of silverware, a set of drinking glasses and, after she gave him a once-over over her shoulder, a set of four wine glasses. “In case you gain some sort of sophistication.”

“Says the woman who eats cereal in her underwear,” he said, and Arya hit him.

“My boyfriend works _at a bar_ , okay? We have late nights, we get up late, and I had no idea you were coming over that early.” Rickon laughed, and she grinned despite herself.

While this really was more of Sansa’s shtick, Arya had to admit she was honored that Rickon thought of her, even if she was more than likely the second choice. He’d never been as cold to his brothers and sisters as he had been to mom and dad, but there was still quite a distance to close, even after two years.

“You need dishes. Forget going with a pattern, just get basic white. They make the food look better, plus you’re probably going to break most of them, and this way they’re easiest to replace, even with a different style.”

“Damn, Arya, you make it sound like I’m going to blow up my own apartment or something.”

“Well, let’s just say I speak from experience,” she said, and they both laughed. Her lack of grace luckily didn’t follow her into work, but it was probably for the best that Gendry had long ago commandeered all control of meal preparation.

Rickon fussed a bit over the choices, but after a sigh or two from her, he finally went with the simplest, cleanest looking pattern, modern and sleek, absolutely unadorned. She nodded once in approval, and they moved on. He flatly refused a tablecloth of any kind, and Arya saw his point.

“Do you even have a mop? A broom? 409? Windex?”

“Fuck,” Rickon said, and heaved a sigh. “This is going to be really expensive.”

“Windex is like two bucks, buddy,” she said haughtily, and sailed past him with the cart towards the household cleaners.

 

Later they sat in his apartment, eating cold pizza on the floor, backs up against his bed. She sucked the grease off her fingers and gave the studio an appraising look. She nodded, reached for her soda, took a swig. “It’s a nice place. Really high ceilings, which is nice. Doesn’t make it feel so small.”

“It’s not _that_ small,” he defended, drinking his own soda. “It’s like 500 square feet.”

“You gonna throw a house warming party?” she said, bulldozing through the conversation with a segue.  Her brother snorted a laugh and went in for another piece of pizza, wolfing it down with the hunger of a rabid animal.

“Okay, maybe it _is_ that small. Who the fuck am I gonna fit in here for a party?” he said around a mouthful of sausage, cheese and onion.

“Well, us, for one thing. Gendry and me, Sansa and Sandor, Bran and Jojen.”

“Jojen?” he frowned. “He’s in town?”

“Well, he will be, yeah, to help Bran pack up.”

 “Pack up?”

“Are you deaf, you stoner?” Arya rolled her eyes, shaking the ice in her cup before sucking down the last of her soda. “Yes, pack up. I guess they just bought a house on Magazine street or somewhere, down in New Orleans. Apparently it was like, what do you call it, a needle in a haystack, I don’t know. A real deal, or something. Great area of town, something something. Hey, what’s wrong?” she asked, a frown wrinkling her brow. Rickon had stood abruptly, and was now filling the small room with his pacing. He rubbed the back of his neck obsessively, and hair from the shaggy crop on top of his head fell into his face, bobbing with the friction of his hand, with his pacing.

“Don’t tell me Bran didn’t mention it,” she said, feeling suddenly sick. She pushed the pizza box away from her with her foot, feeling mutinous, traitorous, like a Typhoid Mary, spreading sickness wherever she went. She should have realized he’d react this way; Bran had been her baby brother’s rock since day one, the only one of them that had really stuck by his side, due to age, circumstance, love and loyalty. Her mouth ran dry, and she shucked a few ice cubes in her mouth, chewing them quickly, swallowing for any sort of comfort. Bran had never told her _not_ to tell… Or had he? Fuck, she couldn’t remember. “Rickon? Rickon, come on, talk to me.”

 

When Arya left, Rickon rushed to the bathroom and threw up his pizza. He squatted in front of the toilet, gasping for air, wondering why Bran had kept it from him. They had always been so close… Was he doing it to protect him, to keep him from the harsh reality of living without his brother? And if so, did that mean he thought Rickon was weak, unable to handle it? He finally sat back on his ass, leaning against the wall in the tiny bathroom. He unbent his knees, let his feet slide out on either side of the toilet.

A thought flashed in his head, murky and wicked and yes, weak. But it was the only idea floating around, so Rickon clung to it, flotsam after the shipwreck in his mind, in the turbulent ocean that was him. He got to his feet, careful of his still roiling stomach, and went to find his phone. He scrolled to I AM THE KRAKEN, and sent out a text. A few minutes later, his phone buzzed with the reply.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Picset](http://jillypups.tumblr.com/post/117544516943/sweet-disposition-chapter-4)

December, Tuesday, 6:05pm

Brienne closed out of Excel and sighed, sitting back in her chair away from the mahogany desk that would always be her father’s, no matter how long she sat behind it. Her back ached, and a glance to the clock on her computer screen alerted her to the fact that she’d been in the office for 12 hours. If she wasn’t mistaken, her assistant had been here almost as long.

“Podrick?” She called out, and sure enough, within moments the door to her office opened and he stepped in, papers in hand. “I know that phone has rung a few times this afternoon but I was never interrupted in here,” she said. “Are there messages for me?”

“No,” he said. “There were just a couple of calls from marketers and then one from that representative from the home and garden expo out in Las Vegas.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t get it. We’re about hunting and camping, not about re-staining wood decks and organizing closets. Well, thank you for the peace and quiet, I was able to get ahead on some of these figures.”

Tarth Outdoors was very successful and very popular, but she’d experienced thin times with her father before they took over from her grandfather, and she didn’t want a repeat of the ordeal. To say she was thorough and fully involved in all aspects of the business would be putting it lightly.

“I hope you’re heading home soon, by the way. It’s an hour past quitting time for you.”

“Same to you,” he smiled, and she chuckled her acceptance of that truth. “I’m on my way out, but I had a uh, a proposal I’d like to put to you, if it’s not too late. It won’t take long,” he added hastily.

Brienne was about to stand, but was so weary she decided to stay seated to hear him out. She nodded and rested her arms on the rests of her chair. Pod nodded in response and came forward, sitting in the chair on the other side of her father’s desk.

“So, I was talking with a friend who works in I.T., and it got me thinking,” he said, his eyes eager. “We’ve got that one guy from Chicago PC subcontracted to come three days a week. His contract with us has an annual fee, and we also pay for each visit plus hourly if he stays past the first hour.” Brienne nodded her understanding, and he forged ahead.

“I crunched some numbers,” he said, handing over the first sheet of paper, “and I found that if we pay an actual full time I.T. employee a bit above the average of what someone of my friend’s ability should make, we’d be paying the same amount as this guy from Chicago PC, but when you add the annual fee, we’d be paying less. Now, if we pay a full time I.T. guy right _at_ the average level, we’d be saving money on a monthly level as well. “But we’d have a full time employee instead of just a few times a week, and considering how often Myranda jams the printer and how many damn computer viruses Harrold has downloaded, I think it would also help with productivity.” He handed her a printout of the average of salaries for a person in such a position, as well as a write up of how often they’d called the Chicago PC man between his scheduled days.

She couldn’t keep the smile from creeping up onto her face. “Heroic Podrick, getting his friend a job, saving the company money, improving productivity, and even dropping a hint that his friend should get a raise. Very well done, I’m impressed,” and Pod grinned from ear to ear. Brienne reviewed more closely the information he’d put together, and had to admit it made sense.

“All right. Get this friend’s resume sent in to me, and set up an interview for later this week. We have that shipment of 5,000 carabiners coming in tomorrow and last time they were misplaced and lost for a week. I don’t want to be distracted.”

“You got it, no problem,” Pod said, and his eyes were shining with pride. Brienne didn’t blame him. She knew this was likely to be initially motivated by the desire to help out a friend, but regardless of motivation, he was a hard, dedicated worker and his research and efforts would end up saving the company money. She was proud of him too. He stood up to leave, and she stood up as well, arching her back to stretch it out.

"Pod, before you go, what’s your friend’s name?”

“Stark. Rickon Stark.”

 

Later that evening, after a long hot soak in the tub and a change into fleece pajama pants and a soft t-shirt, Brienne curled up on her couch, faced with a stunning view of the city that she just couldn’t focus on. It had been hard to think of much else since her exchange with Pod at the office. She sighed, picked up her mug of chamomile, and stared into it as she dunked her tea bag in, over and over again.

Stark. The name was more than familiar to her, and it filled her with more than one emotion as she mulled it over. As she got older, Brienne was discovering just how small this world was, and how once you thought a chapter in your life was over, people returned to remind you that there _were_ no chapters, just a start, and a finish if you were lucky. It bled into itself. It was messy but serendipitous, full of sweet nostalgia and painful reminders.

Before her father moved them to Chicago, Brienne had been a sun-kissed California girl, though she was more partial to hiking, surfing, and camping beneath the stars than sunbathing and shopping. She had become close friends with one of those sunbathers though, her dear friend Margaery, who eventually left Point Loma to attend the U of A, where she had met Joff Lannister. Soon after, Selwyn had moved them to Chicago to take over his father's store, to the land of wind and snow.

Brienne sighed, and took a sip of her tea. Her father had backed Ned Stark politically, funding his run for senate with a few hefty donations, and she’d even interned briefly with him, getting to know both Ned and Cat. So when Margaery had called her with gossip about a certain Sansa Stark being physically abused by her boyfriend, Brienne knew she should have told them. She’d never know why she didn’t, worry over getting involved in something she shouldn’t, concern she’d be called a liar, maybe, but it was the one decision she’d made in her life that marked her as a coward and a fool. It stung to this day.

A few months after Brienne had received that knowledge (and Margaery had known for certain, because he’d tried that shit with her), Sansa Stark had been whisked away and hidden away at the Stark home. Brienne and Margaery both had assumed it had to do with the level of abuse aimed at her from Joff, and she had never quite forgiven herself for her silence.

Now she was faced with another Stark, the youngest. It was hard to say who had it worse, Sansa or her youngest brother, Rickon. Not everyone knew where he’d been when they moved back from Nashville, one family member short, but there was talk. Avoidance of an arrest, perhaps, military school maybe, some major infraction on his part that had horrified his parents. There were strains in the relationship. Her father had been alive when Rickon had returned home, had still been on friendly terms with Ned, and while the Stark patriarch was a stoic man, there were some wrinkles in life that were impossible to iron out with only a set jaw and grim determination.

She didn’t want to play favorites and she didn’t want to hire him solely on the fact that she knew the family, was possessed with an idea of somehow making it up to the Stark name, but her heart went out to them all. And if he was as good at his job as Podrick said, if it saved them money but increased productivity, well then, what harm was there in helping him out?

  

Rickon woke with a start, his head pounding, his mouth dried out and tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His face was pressed against the wrinkled sheets of his bed, and his hair was in his eyes. With a groan, he brushed it away and opened his eyes again, staring at the face of a woman he couldn’t recognize. She had brown hair to her chin and was sleeping in her clothes, _thank the Gods._ But still he scrambled to his hands and knees and sat back on his heels, staring at her in horror.

He didn’t feel like he’d had sex; it had been long enough, since Jon’s wedding, that he felt fairly sure he’d know if he had. “Seven fucking hells,” he said, and his voice cracked with dehydration. His head throbbed as if to remind him of its misery. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

“Get over yourself,” the girl said, smirking up at him, eyes bleary. “We didn’t fuck. I just fell asleep after Theon left.”

“Theon was here?”

“Oh boy, you’re a pro, aren’t you? Yes, Theon was here, he’s my brother. Do you even remember my name?” She sat up, ruffling her hair lazily, unconcerned that she was in some stranger’s bed.

"Ummm.” Rickon felt like he was reeling. “Just, just give me a second, okay?” He glanced at the alarm clock sitting on his desk. 11:17am. “What day is it? It’s um, it’s Wednesday, right?”

“Yes, genius, it’s Wednesday. Now that you have that figured out, what’s my name?”

He was starting to get annoyed with this woman’s attitude. He narrowed his eyes at her, got to his feet, prayed he had Advil packed somewhere. “If we didn’t fuck then why do I need to know your name?”

She snorted a laugh, wincing as her hand flew to her forehead. _Good, at least I’m not alone in that,_ he thought. “Good point. But it’s Asha, just so you’re aware.”

“Asha,” he tested out the name, and yes, it felt familiar. He could almost remember it from the night before. What the fuck had happened? When did he even go to bed last night? _Oh shit, what did I take last night?_

Rickon took the short walk into the kitchen, grateful he’d bought a coffee maker and coffee. He set about making a full pot, thinking he’d give the girl – _Asha --_ a cup or two before getting her out of his apartment. It felt wrong, having her here, though she seemed to make herself more than comfortable, sitting on his bed, putting her shoes back on. He wanted to wash his sheets.

“So, I’ll be honest, I’m having a little trouble remembering what happened last night,” he called out after clearing his throat.

“Nothing major. Some weed. A couple of pills. You wanted to go apeshit but Theon managed to keep your intake under control. You were on fire last night.”

Rickon got two mugs from the cupboard, blowing into them to make sure they were free from the dust and must of moving. He thought hard, and a blur of images swam up from a drug-fortified lock box of memory: laughing as they passed around Arya’s bong; Asha swigging from a bottle of whisky; Theon texting other people madly, leaving twice to do deals; Rickon falling over on his way to take a leak in the bathroom; shaking a bottle of pills into his hand. He grimaced and left the kitchen in order to brush his teeth and conduct a hopeful search for Advil. When he emerged and handed Asha a pair of ibuprofen and a cup of coffee, they sat in awkward silence, staring into opposite corners of his apartment.

“Nice place, by the way. I mean, I am sure I told you that last night, but neither of us can really remember.”

Rickon nodded his thanks. He was absolutely void of any desire to converse with her, and was trying to find the words to make her leave without looking like a complete asshole, when she sighed and stood, gathering up her coat and scarf. _Thank gods._

“Well, it’s been real, Rickon. I’ll catch you later, I’m sure,” and Rickon had to hand it to her for reading the room correctly and leaving as quickly as she did. He sighed, letting his forehead thump against his door as he locked it behind her. It would be a lie to say he wasn’t overwhelmingly relieved to see her go.

He showered, brushed his teeth again, and set about cleaning the apartment, ridding it of more beer bottles than he remembered having at his disposal, the empty whisky bottle he remembered Asha guzzling from, and two empty packs of cigarettes. The ashtray was a cemetery of cigarette butts and even he, seasoned smoker, wrinkled his nose in distaste as he dumped it into the trash, a puff of acrid smoke smell and ash pluming up as he did so.

The place felt more like his own once all evidence of his bad behavior was gone, and once he took the garbage out and sprayed the place down with cleaner, it was like it had never even happened. He needed to find furniture, but he still had until next Monday until he had to back to work, so that took away a bit of that pressure.

He checked his emails, nursing a second cup of coffee, hoping for another one from Shireen, telling him if she’d be coming back to this side of the pond anytime soon. He’d already emailed her back, telling her “challenge accepted” on the tattoo idea. There was no email back from her, but he realized he still hadn’t sketched any ideas for the second half of the tattoo.

The beauty of trying to draw out ideas was that it required him to pull up Shireen’s photo. On a whim, he made it his laptop’s wallpaper, and, after getting himself a quick bite to eat, he settled back into his chair, gazing at the birdcage on her ribs. Rickon wished he could trace the finely drawn bars with his fingers, and did so lightly to the computer screen, chewing on his lower lip.

The yellow feather caught his eye, and an idea began to form around it. He drew a tiny yellow bird in profile on the sheet of paper, careful not to smudge his left hand in the ink. The ideas bloomed like small flowers afterwards, and he hunkered down into his creativity, forehead resting in his right hand, coffee growing cold. The only disturbance was the motion of his hand as he drew, the upwards flick of his eyes as he returned his attention to Shireen’s tattoo. Her hip bones were visible in the photo; she always wore her pants slung low. _Is she even_ in _pants?_ Rickon grinned. It’d be like her to send a completely naked photo, under the guise of art, creativity, and not provocation, instigation.

After forty minutes and two restarts, Rickon had his tattoo. Now for the placement; he could put it on his ribs, like hers, but the design meant it would actually wrap around his entire torso, unless he wanted it to cut off on either side. The only logical answer was a limb, and he was not a man who wanted something around his ankle or thigh. Bicep it was.

Rickon had long ago said to her, while they were both up at Skagos, that in case he ever had to run from the cops, he’d never get a tattoo, as it would be easily identifiable. Of course Shireen had remembered that, and of course she’d dismissed it. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the birdcage, the swell of breast beneath her hand, the plane of her belly caught by the glow of the lamp just behind her. Well, she’d been right. He supposed he could set aside a potential life of crime to get inked with her.

He wished she were here, but at least this way he could get his design and either send her a photo or demand she come for a visit with all that Baratheon money to fund her trip. Rickon grinned and sat forward, pulling up his email, opening a “compose” window.

 

To: “Shireen Baratheon” <scarface22 @ gmail>

Subject: I ate your canary

 

What’s up, girly mouth?

I figured you’d like to know that I have the design for the tattoo. It took me some time, and plenty of _intense study_ of your picture but I like it. I think you’ll like it too, but then again, it doesn’t matter if you hate it because it’s going on my skin. So there! But hey, I’ve always been pretty good about knowing what you like.

When you coming back this way? You’ve been overseas too long. I’d hate for you to return with any sort of culture. I want my inmate buddy intact and whole when she returns, full of piss and vinegar, not baguettes and fucking bordeaux or whatever.

I sort of had a crazy night last night. I guess Bran is moving out of state to be with his boyfriend, but he never told me. You know how that shit gets to me. I kinda flipped my shit, and smoked out with Theon fucking Greyjoy and his weird sister. I feel like an idiot, but at the same time, I don’t know. I’m okay with it? I guess this is my confession, lol. I took pills too. Forgive me father. Of course, if you had been here, you would have probably just stolen the weed for yourself.

Hope you are still successful beating back the smelly Frenchmen over there. Come home where you belong.

Love you, asshole

Rickon

 

Shireen’s phone buzzed with an email, but La Guardia was insane with crowds, so she let it go for the time being. The moment the plane had landed she had slipped on her huge oversized sunglasses, hiding scars and jet lag in one fell swoop. She stalked down the length of the airport, her carry-on rolling faithfully behind her as she pulled it, and went right to her baggage carousel, ignoring the looks, eternally ignoring the looks.

Sitting on her suitcase, Shireen pulled out her phone and slid the sunglasses down her nose, pulling up her email. She smiled when she saw who it was from (Northwolf18). The time stamp was blessedly within an hour of her current one, once more. It had been four years since she’d been back in the states, and seeing Rickon again was in the top five on her list of priorities.

There was an email from uncle Renly, so she attended to it first, replying that she’d landed safely, was back in New York, would stay here and get acclimated for a bit before setting off to meet him in Atlanta. She wanted some down time, to relax and get over her jet lag, though New York was too close to Maine for comfort; she’d leave soon enough. _And there is a trip to Chicago I’d like to make_ , she thought, firing off that email to open up Rickon’s.

She smiled to read his words, though it faded somewhat when she got to the part about Bran, and doing drugs with Theon. She had never met him, but had heard enough up in Skagos. Shireen sighed; Bran’s departure would be hard for her dear sweet friend. Worry rose up in her heart, but she tried to be optimistic. Rickon had been through plenty. Perhaps he’d learn to escape his troubles like she had, instead of opting to drown in them.

The baggage carousel groaned to life, but Shireen took the time to tap out a reply to him, letting him know she was back on American soil, would take some down time and then head out to visit him. She told him she missed him and that one Frenchman had been enough, that she was excited to see the tattoo. Bit her lip imagining him studying the picture she’d sent. Oh, that had been a pulse-quickening decision on her part. She sent her email and sighed happily. Tired, but happy.

“Mom, look at her _face,”_ a voice to her left said, and Shireen turned her head sharply, her ponytail whipping through the air, glaring over the rims of her sunglasses at the source. A teenage girl was pointing, and her mother was doing a poor job of reining in both her kid’s and her own morbid curiosity. They were unabashed in their staring. She could usually handle little kids’ questions and stares. Hells, they didn’t know any better, and usually were just curious, never malicious. Shireen did not like the looks these two were aiming at her. She smiled darkly.

“I got it from premarital sex,” Shireen said, raising her eyebrows suggestively. “Never let them come on your face.” A nearby man gasped so sharply he started choking. The mother turned purple with embarrassment and shock and took her daughter by the shoulders, steering her far from where Shireen sat.

Soon after the exchange, her two bags dumped out onto the carousel, and she was given a wide berth when she stood up and approached to retrieve them. _Good. Stay away from me._ The only one who never gave a shit about her face, giving her neither horror nor sympathy, sad eyes nor wary ones, was Rickon, and she wrapped herself up in that knowledge, in the anticipatory joy over knowing she’d soon see him, he’d soon see her with his bright and honest eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone can figure out how I can get Jaime/Brienne together, TELL ME lol. I'm trying so hard but it's already so tangled. I want all my ships in one.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Picset](http://jillypups.tumblr.com/post/117547108303/sweet-disposition-chapter-5)

 

 

December Friday 3:25pm

 

“Thank you, Ms. Tarth, I’m really looking forward to joining the company and working with you.” Rickon was trying hard not to grin like an idiot; he’d just accepted an awesome work package from her, and was trying to keep the dollar signs out of his eyes as well. Not only would he be no longer working for his father, but he’d also be earning a not insignificant amount more than he had before. He struggled to maintain some dignity in front of his new boss.

Brienne Tarth was a serious woman, and intimidating thanks to having an inch or so of height on him, but she smiled easily enough, and had a wealth of kindness in her eyes. The desire to switch jobs had sprung from getting out from under his parents’ thumbs, but now he was seeing there would be other perks as well. It would be a good environment, he thought. He shook her hand when they both stood, and confirmed his start date as the following Monday.

When her door closed, Pod was there, and they grinned like fools to each other, high fiving and bumping shoulders together at their fortune of being coworkers now. A part of Rickon cracked open a bit; he’d known Podrick for a while now, and the man had always been a good and honest friend. A flash of memory flooded him: pills, weed, booze, a hollow man and his questionable sister; he’d do better hanging out with men like Pod, and hoped this job would afford him more chances to do so.

“She’s a great boss. She expects hard work and honesty, coming in on time and stuff, but she’s great. Brienne really cares about the company, and about us. So come on, man, let me show you around.”

The offices were on the third floor of the building, the first two being taken up with the wares of the store, all separated out by interest; there was a section for everything, canoeing, kayaking, archery, shooting, fishing, fly fishing, camping, serious camping, intense shit camping, rock climbing. It went on and on.

It blended together after a while, but Rickon made sure to pay close attention when they returned to the third floor, and saw where his office would be, where the server room was, how many computers he would be responsible for. Pod walked him downstairs again when he had a firm grip on what would be expected of him, and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Care to grab a beer after I’m out of here? I’ve got like an hour and a half to go.”

“I’d love to, man, but I have a date with a tattoo artist in about an hour.” Rickon put his hat on and buttoned his coat.

“Like, a date with a lady who tattoos people for a profession?” Said Pod, his interest piqued. Rickon laughed. His friend’s appetites were never sated and rarely far from conscious thought.

“It’s a nice mental image, but no, like an appointment, with a dude, who is going to tattoo me.” Rickon pointed out where he’d get it, and discussed the design. “I’ll hit you up tomorrow for that beer?” They agreed on a time and he shook his friend’s hand with a tight grip. “Thanks again for the help, man, I really appreciate it.”

He went home and showered, scrubbing his upper left arm with extra vigor and attention before going to work on his hair. The sides were growing out, and would need a shave soon. He wondered idly if Shireen would do it, save him the trouble of doing it himself. She was the one who’d given him the haircut in the first place. He’d never changed it, not since he was 16 years old.

She’d not been concrete with her time of arrival, but he knew it would be within the next couple of weeks. He was hoping that was an accurate window of time; Jojen was set to arrive in January, just a week or so away, to help Bran pack up a U-Haul and tow the ancient Volvo to New Orleans, taking his brother away. It’d be nice to have an ally by his side for that.

He had briefly entertained the idea of following Bran, of just quitting his job, saying no thanks to Pod’s request for a resume, cutting all ties to the city. But in the end, he didn’t want Bran’s life, or to piggy-pack off him. He wanted his own path, his own claim, his own love. Rickon just wondered if those things were in the cards for him.

One thing he loved about having such a small apartment was that it didn’t take much out of the furnace to warm it up, and whenever he showered or cooked on the stove, those slight actions helped add a little extra heat to the place. Still, it was a hasty path he beat from the bathroom, which was off of the kitchen, into the main room, damp towel wrapped around his waist.

Dressing quickly to trap the warmth on his skin from his shower, Rickon suddenly realized he had forgotten to tell his father he was quitting his job. Shit. He had wanted to be as clinically cold and professional as possible with this situation, but in his excitement over decorating his apartment (there was now a sofa on the wall opposite from his bed, and a coffee table between them), his wild indiscretion on Tuesday night and then Pod getting him an interview so soon, he had forgotten to touch base with his father.

It was fitting, really, that his parents were the first thing from his mind. But seeing as it was late on Friday afternoon, he’d have to call his father now, before he left the office. He didn’t want to talk to his dad with his mother hovering around. Knowing her she’d grab the phone, lecture him about responsibility with one breath and beg him to come home with the other.

So Rickon sat on his new sofa, unlit cigarette in hand, rolling back and forth between the fingers of his left hand as he held the phone to his ear with his right.

“Senator Stark’s office, how may I help you?”

“Jory, hey, it’s Rickon. Is my dad still there?” He pulled the phone away quickly, looking at the time. 4:45pm. He returned the phone to his ear.

“Still?” Jory chuckled. “Yeah, he’s still here. He’ll be here a while yet. Let me patch you through.” Rickon felt a flare of nerves; his dad would likely think this was a personal call, just as Jory did, not even bothering to ask what business the call was about.

“Rickon, this is a surprise,” his father said, warmth effusing his voice. “How did the move go, did you get everything straightened out?” The nerves sharpened into a pang of guilt, a rare feeling when his parents were involved, and he steeled himself for an uncomfortable exchange.

“Yeah, it did. Actually, it went so well that I had some extra time to, you know, think about things. My career. It dawned on me that maybe working so long for my father wouldn’t look so good. Like that thing, you know, where it’s intentional.”

“Nepotism?” his father suggested.

“Yeah, that. So,” he said taking a deep breath and exhaling it. “So I went out and got another job. Thing is, they need me right away, and I’m starting Monday. I wanted to give you my notice, and I’m sorry it isn’t a full two weeks, but what can you do?”

Ned sighed into the phone. “That’s fine, son. I don’t think there’s really anything else I can say. I’ll not give a negative reference in the future just because you didn’t give me two weeks. But, Rickon, tell me, honestly, is this because of nepotism, or is this personal? Is this you, distancing yourself from the family?”

Rickon had to smile, and he wasn’t sure if it was bitter or if it was sad. “I think we both know there’s been distance for a long time, dad. At least now it’s more clear cut.”

“I can accept that,” his father said after a pause, but he made no move to get off the phone. Rickon stood, started getting ready for his appointment, shrugging into his coat and finding his keys. He tucked the cigarette behind his ear. “We’re having everyone over for dinner when Jojen comes into town,” Ned said, and now his voice was soft. Rickon stilled. “Sandor and Sansa are coming with the baby, and Arya said Gendry will do his best to get that night off. We’d love to have you, Rickon.  _Please._ ”

Rickon chewed his lip, thinking it over. He did like Jojen, and it wasn’t like he was taking Bran away out of spite; they were together, it was allowed, it made sense. Both of them were far past being adults. Plus, Shireen would be here. If there was some dinner they had to go to, maybe he could get her to solidify her plans.

“I have a friend, from Skagos,” he said slowly, mentioning Shireen to his father for the first time in his life. “She’s been overseas the past few years but is finally back in the states. She’ll be in town then.”

“We’d be delighted to have her, you know that,” his dad said, and Ned had never sounded so delightfully optimistic in Rickon’s recent memory. “In fact, we know Jojen will be here for a week at the very least, we can always move the dinner to another night that works better for your friend. What’s her name?”

"Shireen.”

"We’ll keep in touch as far as the dinner goes. And Rickon?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll miss you around here. But thank you for calling me, and for telling me about your friend.”

He bit back a thousand retorts he had to that, swallowed the anger that always bubbled up whenever he spoke to his mother or father, whenever they cast sweet words his way, too little, too late. He inhaled. “Sure, yeah. Whatever,” he said on the exhale. “Gotta go.”

 

He sat still as stone in the black pleather chair, hunched forward slightly as the artist, a slender middle aged man named Jorah, finished the telephone pole on Rickon’s upper left arm, slightly towards the back. The pain was acute, but nowhere near as jaw-clenchingly intense as when Jorah had inked in the telephone wires on the soft inside of his arm. Luckily there were just two small crows left for the inside arm (Rickon had gritted his teeth, requested a cigarette break, and for the artist to focus attention elsewhere for the time being).

So now, with the needle buzzing away on the relatively less sensitive outer arm, Rickon could breathe a bit easier, and began to study his tattoo artist. _How funny, to call him mine. How funny these tattoos are, that somehow bind us to people we don’t even know._ The man had a small demon tattoo on his neck, and a three headed dragon on the inside of his right forearm, and it pulsed and moved as the man colored in one of the black crows on the front side of the tattoo.

“That’s pretty cool,” Rickon said, pointing carefully, vaguely from afar, to the dragon. The gun stopped buzzing, and the artist glanced down. He grunted, nodded once. “Does it have any special meaning?”

"The mark of a lost love,” Jorah said, setting the gun to life once more, and Rickon asked no more questions, but his eyes kept drifting to the tattoo on the man’s neck. There were, as far as he could tell, only two tattoos on the artist; Rickon may have only one piece of art inked into his skin, but he’d known plenty of tattoo artists, and they rarely stopped at just two. His curiosity ran wild.

Jorah glanced up, and Rickon tore his eyes from the demon tattoo, and where Rickon expected a glower or short-tempered response, to his surprise he instead received a small smirk, a good humored snort of laughter. “Go on, ask, kid.” He set the gun down on his sterilized tray and sat back, clasping his gloved hands on his lap to keep them clean.

Rickon shrugged. “What’s it for?” He studied the man intently; he wasn’t bad looking, but he looked as if he’d lived a rough life. The sorrow in Jorah’s eyes, edged with wrinkles that defined a life filled with more hardship than delight, was a tangible thing as he mirrored Rickon’s shrug.

“Let’s just say that it is a daily reminder of what I did to lose her,” he said, laying a finger on the three headed dragon. “I can look at her every day on my arm, to remind me of what I lost, but every time I look in the mirror, the demon reminds me of what I did.” He nodded as Rickon whistled low, and took up the gun again, switching it on, leaning forward to tend to the final piece on the outside of his bicep, the small yellow canary. “Yep. So, you know, don’t fuck it up if you meet a nice girl.”

  

“Bran, you can’t keep this away from him, too, for fuck’s sake.” Jojen was furious; he knew how close the two youngest Starks were, and he had taken great pains within his relationship with Bran to never become a wedge between the two. Now, with Bran’s omission of not only his move to New Orleans but their impending nuptials up in Illinois, there was a very real chance that not only the relationship would be damaged, but that he would be blamed for it. Becoming Bran's husband would

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know why I didn’t. I mean, wait, I _was_ ¸I _am_ going to tell, but I was just going to give it some time. And then Arya told him, and then that made it look like I was keeping it from him. so now it's sort of a mess. But he’s… Sansa said that Sandor thought the baby coming switched something off in Ric, and I didn’t want to pile up all this, all this _change_ on him. Okay? Forgive me for trying to be the one person in this fucking family who actually puts the baby brother first.”

“I love Rickon, I do, but sometimes he’s the _only_ one you put first,” and Jojen immediately regretted saying it. He sighed, nearly leaned against the wall of the bedroom before remembering the paint was still tacky, and jolted forward instead. He’d been working like a dog since the close of escrow, getting it ready for when Bran moved down. The caulking and patching was done, as was the paint. He had to retile the bathroom downstairs, install the curtain rods in the master bedroom, and fix the loose railing on the front porch, and then he was done.

“Oh, you think so?” said Bran, and his voice was ominously low and calm. “That’s funny. I switched majors after meeting you, I came out to my family for you, for us, I came out to the _world_ for us, and faced discrimination where I taught. I will face it even _more_ so down south, where I’m moving for, wait, who is it again? Surely not the brother who will miss me the most, Jojen,” he finished, voice growing sharper and sharper until Jojen’s name sounded like the snap of a pair of scissors on his lover’s lips.

“I’m sorry, forget I said anything. I’m just so tired right now, Bran, and I want this to go well.” He dragged his weary body to its feet and headed downstairs, the phone pressed to his ear as Bran vented to him, and not for the first time, Jojen thanked the Mother for getting just one sibling, for his uncomplicated family. He truly loved all of Bran’s brothers and sisters, he did not lie when he claimed love for Rickon, but they represented pieces of Bran’s heart, when Jojen felt very sure that his own heart had just one name carved onto it, and it was Bran’s.

Meera and his father were close to him, and their relationship was easy and laid back. There were no dramas every other month, no brother-sister squabbles that had Howland on the phone with him, mediating between son and daughter, no reformatory schools, no damsels to rescue. Jojen had had to learn how to become a sixth sibling as an adult, and the growing pains had ached those first two years.

“I know, I know,” Bran sighed, his breath a soft gust through the phone against his ear. “I’m sorry too. I just… I just want to do the right thing. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that I need to do what’s right for us, first, and then figure out how to make that as right as possible for everyone else.”

“You have a lot on your plate,” Jojen said, grabbing a beer and stepping out into their small backyard. It was a balmy winter, warmer than usual, but a decent breeze lifted the sweaty hair off the back of his neck, and he was grateful for it.

“So do you. Trust me, I do know you’re working hard down there, and I’m grateful. But just, you know, just understand that I’m working hard up here too. Just in different ways, is all.”

They chatted awhile longer about smaller, less important things, the pond Jojen wanted to dig in the back, the dog Bran wanted to get now that he’d finally be a home owner. They discussed, briefly, the gossip that had slid down the grapevine about Rickon’s dinner guest, the girl named Shireen.

“I wonder if it’s like, a girl friend, or you know, a _girl_ friend,” Jojen said with a smile. Regardless of the drama they brought, at least Bran's siblings also brought the juicier, more fun details with them.

“All I know is this is the only person he has ever mentioned from Skagos, and this is the first time we’ve ever heard of her. I’m not sure what we did to deserve getting to meet her now, or if it’s just lucky timing, but needless to say, the Stark family is practically vibrating, they’re so excited. Sansa even got a new dress for the occasion."

“Well, if _Arya_ wears a dress and puts on makeup, then so will I,”  Jojen said dryly, and was wrapped up in the sweet sound of his lover’s laughter.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> http://jillypups.tumblr.com/post/117550704493/sweet-disposition-chapter-6

January, Thursday morning, 11:45am

 

“What do you think she’s like?” Arya was in the shower, scrubbing shampoo in her wild mess of hair, and Gendry was shaving over the bathroom sink. He had to be at work in an hour, but she had just come back from a work meeting, and wouldn’t need to go back until later that afternoon.

“Who knows? She spent her teen years there just like Ric did, so I mean, really, we could get anything.”

“I can’t believe he’s just now mentioning her to everyone,” she said, tipping her head back under the water. Jojen had arrived two days ago, but tonight is when Rickon had informed the family that Shireen was flying in. Jojen was old news; the novelty had worn off years ago, and now he was just another brother, but Shireen? Shireen was new, unknown, exciting. “Do you think she’s like, unstable?”

“Well. Is Rickon?”

 “No,” Arya said without thought, but then she considered it. Was he? He was angry, closed off and hurt, and he had yet to shed those skins, two years after getting out. What unsettled her most, though, was that the decision had been made when he was 13. He was 21 now, wasn’t that enough time to just let it go  and get over it? “Well, not unstable. He just can’t drop stuff as easily, I guess.”

“I wonder why,” said Gendry, and Arya sighed, reaching behind her for the conditioner in the shower caddy. Her boyfriend’s upbringing had not been an easy one, and she knew that he largely sided with Rickon. In fact, Sandor did too, from what she could tell. _Men,_  she thought.  _Always sticking together._

“Anyways,” she said, combing conditioner through her hair, thinking she needed to trim it. “He told Bran they’ve been in touch this whole time, but didn’t say why he’s never told us about her until now.” She leaned back again to rinse.

“That’s easy,” Gendry said, and the water pressure of Arya’s shower dipped as he turned on the sink, the sloshing of his razor in the water loud enough to be heard even with her head under the shower. “He wants something for himself, that’s only his. He’s, you know, he’s a private guy. I don’t think he fully trusts any of you, of  _us,_ ” he corrected, anticipating Arya’s outburst at not including himself in the family. “He was raised without you guys for a large chunk of his childhood. Why would he all of a sudden be willing to open up about that time of his life? He was left to his own devices, so he developed them. Closing himself off is just one of them.”

Arya’s heart bled a little, hearing him so frankly lay out how a troubled man deals with life. She’d known him for most of her life and had loved him for nearly as long, and she hated reminders that no matter how fiercely she adored him, no matter how tightly she held to him at night, there were pains there that would never be eased. There were hurts on his heart that even she couldn’t heal, no matter how hard she raged against the unfairness of them.

“Hmm. Well, I hope then that maybe this girl will help him open up and break down some of those walls.”

Gendry pulled open the shower curtain, half his face coated in shaving cream, the other half baby soft and freshly shaven. She grinned at him, wanted to kiss him even with that crap all over his face. He gave her A Look. “Like you are anyone to talk about breaking down walls. I’ve been at it since high school, lady, and you still pretend to be some sort of hard ass half the time.”

Arya raised her eyebrows and dropped her jaw, flicking water at his face. “I  _am_ a hard ass, thank you very much. I didn’t spend the last few years of my life backpacking around the states without learning a thing or two.”

Gendry rolled his eyes, reaching in to slap her ass before dragging the curtain shut. “I was with you the whole time, Arya. The only thing you learned is that I will do anything to get you to shut up when it’s 3am and we are sleeping in a tent.”

 

Sansa checked in on Bryon, resting a light hand on his cheek as she gazed into the pack n’ play on her side of the bed, her eyes lit with love for her son. He was a good sleeper, thank the seven, and was clocking in at 45 minutes so far for this nap. It had given her enough time to get some lunch started, and as the soup burbled and bubbled on the stove, she had taken the time to peek in on him.

Satisfied he was doing well, she pressed a kiss to her fingertips and then laid her fingers on his chest for the briefest of moments, so as not to disturb him, and then slipped out of the room. Lady, the puppy she’d gotten for Sandor, now fully grown, was stretched out beside the pack n’ play, but she got to her feet and followed Sansa, tail wagging lazily, nosing her hand as she escorted her into the kitchen.

“As protective as your papa, you are,” she smiled.

Sandor would be home any moment, and Sansa hoped desperately for some new information about Rickon’s friend. The entire family was buzzing with it; she and her mother had literally discussed weddings, had giggled like idiots over their excitement and premature designs on Rickon and his mystery woman. She’d purchased a new dress for the occasion, and the act made her realize how eager she was to impress this girl, for Shireen to like her. If Rickon’s friend liked her, liked them  _all_ , then she could potentially help them to re-forge their bond with their stormy brother.

She stirred the split pea soup, sampling it and salting it once more before setting the burner to low and cutting off thick slices of a baguette to toast. She popped them down into the toaster and wiped her hands on a dish cloth before setting the table. Sansa was enjoying her go at domesticity, fully soaking up every moment before getting back into the work force. Since getting her master’s, she had contemplated teaching, but wasn’t sure she really wanted that. Bran said it was exhausting and grading papers was a pain in the ass. It was something she’d have to figure out, but not now. She still had to iron out motherhood and all its exhausting sweetness.

The front door stirred to life as the locks turned and it opened, Sandor walking in just as she put the place settings on the table. Lady scrambled out of the kitchen and ran circles around him, and he crouched down and slapped his knees, the dog going wild as she licked his hands, her pale gray body a mass of wiggles and little jumps.

Sansa looked up as he tossed his jacket on the sofa in the den and walked into the kitchen, his large frame filling the doorway as fully as he filled her heart. She smiled easily as he regarded her, eyes hot for her even now. They’d not yet made love after Bryon’s birth, and both of them were starting to feel restless. The kiss he had for her was intense for a midday greeting, his hands fisting her sweater at the base of her spine, and she welcomed it hungrily, though she swatted him away when he tried slipping a hand beneath the waist of her jeans.

“Take it easy, cowboy, your son is asleep in our bedroom.”

“There are other rooms for what I have in mind,” he rumbled, dipping his head to press a kiss to her neck before pulling back. “Something smells good,” he said, peering over her towards the stove. Sansa laughed.

“Typical man, hungry for one thing, then the other.”

“If I had my way, LB, I’d sate the former before even thinking of the latter,” he said. “Can I help with anything?” He asked, sitting down at the table when she shook her head no. She spooned the soup into bowls, dribbling some half and half on top and sprinkling chopped chives over the cream. She set the bowls on the table and then seated herself, and both were quiet for a moment as they ate.

“Did my dad mention anything about Shireen?” she finally blurted between spoonsful of soup. Sandor laughed, though not his usual bark; startling an infant into tears just once was all it took for him to rein it in for the time being. It was softer, more gentle, but genuine nonetheless.

“I’m surprised you kept that question bottled in so long, my girl,” he said, still chuckling as he dragged his spoon back and forth into the soup. “This is delicious.” He ate another bite, lifting his gaze to her, a perfect picture of innocence.

“I didn’t ask about the soup!” she hissed, sending him into another rumbling chuckle.

“I know as much as you; she’s coming in tonight. They’ll come for dinner tomorrow night. It’s all very exciting, and  _very_  shrouded in mystery.” He arched a brow at her, tore his piece of toasted bread, and dredged it into the soup.

“Where does she live? How long will she be in town? Oooh, is she staying with  _him_  or at a hotel?” She ate a spoonful of soup, eyes on him, hoping for  _any_  kind of information.

“Woman, you really think Rickon would just volunteer that information? To your  _parents_?” Sansa rolled her eyes with a smile.

“Okay, fair enough. I just, I’m so excited. I’m nervous. This is so huge, you know? He’s bringing someone to dinner. He’s never done that, so that means she is a special someone. A special  _lady_  someone,” she said suggestively, and Sandor shook his head.

“Thank gods this damned dinner is tomorrow. Curiosity killed the cat, but it turned my bride into a bloody busybody.”

 

Bran was texting Arya, begging her to wear a dress to their folks’ dinner tomorrow. She was refusing, and he was just in the middle of explaining  _why_  it would be so rewarding, when Jojen slipped up behind him, resting his head on his shoulder, gazing down at the text. Bran closed the message window hastily, but not quickly enough.

“Nice try,” Jojen said, turning his face to kiss him on the cheek before letting go.

“Can’t blame man for trying,” grinned Bran as he set the phone down and went back to packing up his books. For only having two rooms in the house that were solely his, he had an awful lot of crap; tons of books, yes, but pictures, clothes, mementos, a surprising amount of furniture. He squatted down beside a mostly-full box of textbooks, hefted it with a grunt, and took a few books out before labelling the box and taping it shut.

“You weren’t lying when you said the whole family is excited for this dinner,” Jojen said, setting down two cups of coffee on the desk in Bran’s office, a room that had once been Robb’s room. “Usually your mother fawns all over me but to call that woman distracted would be underselling the point.”

“She’s set and reset the table three times already,” Bran said with a laugh. “Poor Shireen, she’ll probably self-combust under the scrutiny of a houseful of Starks and all the family boyfriends.”

 

“For the love of the seven, honey, put the stemware down,” Ned said with a chuckle, leaning against the door frame between the kitchen and dining room. “It looks fine.” She was standing at the head of the table, a different style of wine glass in each hand, holding one in front of her for a moment before switching hands. “She’s here for Rickon, anyways, not to scrutinize our table settings.”

“You don’t know that,” Cat said, attempting seriousness and failing as she giggled like a school girl. “I’m sorry, I just can’t help it. He’s bringing home a friend, Ned! A  _girlfriend_. To us! To meet  _us._ ” And she turned to him with the lit up face of a woman he’d not seen in a long while. He set his lowball of bourbon on the buffet and wrapped his arms around his beautiful wife, kissed her soundly on the mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck, accidentally cheersing herself with the wine glasses, a ringing  _clink_ chiming behind his head. They laughed.

“I know,” Ned said with a smile. “It’s a good sign, for sure, but let’s keep in mind that she could be here for support just as easily as for Rickon to show her off. Bran’s leaving. Hell, he doesn’t even know they’re getting married here before they leave.”

Cat tutted and released him from her embrace, setting down the more globular wine glass at Ned’s place at the head of the table. She twitched the napkin more in place and set the unchosen glass back in the china cabinet. “I wish they hadn’t done that. Everyone complains, me included, about how he shuts us out, and then Bran goes and keeps not one but two secrets from him.”

“It’s Bran’s choice to say or not say what he wants, but I know what you mean. They’ll figure it out. They’re the closest of our children.” He stood behind his wife, kissed the crown of her head. “Are you sure you want to go with the gray napkins?”

She swatted him.

 

He fought the urge to pace. Her plane, according to the screen above, was on time, and had just arrived. He ticked off scenarios in his head: she’d be standing idly in the aisle of the plane for five minutes at least after the plane slid into place. Then there was the walk up the ramp; the fight through the crowds; the long haul through the airport until reaching the area beyond the security check points, where he stood with a small crowd of other people.

Rickon had gotten dressed twice; the first was an outfit so casual he looked like was on his way to go do laundry. So the second time, he had done so with more care: a pair of jeans, a gray thermal long-sleeved shirt and a black t-shirt over it, then his thick wool coat and a scarf. Now he felt too casual again, and wished he’d gone with something a little nicer. Shireen had been laid back back at Skagos, but judging from her emails and appearance online, she had an eye for fashion and enjoyed fancy duds. He wondered, fleetingly, if he would still be good enough for her, and then instantly dismissed it. They were them. There was nothing to doubt.

He pictured her with his mind’s eye, petite thing, long hair, ferocious eyes she always hid behind sunglasses, beautiful, sharp tongue, slipping and pushing through the crowds to hurry towards him. He wasn’t full of himself, but he  _knew_ her, knew she’d be missing him too, would be impatient to see him as well. He himself was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, he was so eager to see her.

Thinking about her cast an unfocused glaze over his vision, sent a small smile to play on his mouth. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he lifted a hand to rub his chin, his jaw as he sank into memory of her. They’d Skyped and Face Timed, so he knew she looked largely the same as her last day at Skagos, just more mature. A woman grown. The thought spiked his heart with something akin to arousal at just the idea. He sighed, shook his head a tick or two and passed his hand over his eyes, trying to wipe clean his thoughts. He opened his eyes and then a grin spread across his face.

Just like that, she materialized from behind a taller couple, brushing in between them, pulling a carry-on behind her that nudged the guy in the calf as she breezed by. The man frowned, looking in puzzlement to the woman he was with, and both of them gestured towards Shireen, disbelief at her gumption. Rickon had to admire her balls.  _“Go fuck yourself,”_  had been the first thing she’d ever said to him, and it had filled him with such a curiosity to get to know her, a desire to become her friend. He saw that same fire in her now, and the reassurance that all was as it had been warmed him.

He stood there, not yet recognized, watching her in action. Her hair swayed behind her in rhythm with her hips, and while her boots gave her a couple of inches in height, she was still shorter than most people around her. She looked like a million bucks in a long cream sweater that went halfway down her thighs, and black leggings that disappeared into those boots. Then there were the sunglasses, hiding her face, as always. It was either the shades or a barbed comment, always at the ready, always on guard.

Finally Shireen caught sight of him, standing there in the crowd that awaited their loved ones. She stopped for the briefest of moments, head tipping to the side as she gave him a devious smile. She bit her lip, and Rickon bit his involuntarily, trying in vain to keep the grin off his face. And then she was moving again towards him, stepping quicker than before. Rickon felt such unbridled joy, he started laughing, arms still crossed, afraid to let his body go in case his heart shot out of his chest.  Shireen laughed too, shaking her head, sending her long hair dancing behind her back.

He stood his ground as she approached him, and when they were toe to toe, he slowly uncrossed his arms, gazing down as she tilted her head back to gaze up right back at him. He felt like he was on fire, or drowning in cold water, something tingling and hovering between the two sensations. He hummed, low in his throat, and lifted his hands, running his fingers lightly from the caps of her shoulders down to her wrists, feather light.

“Hi,” she said, and Rickon just grinned. He lowered his head, closer to her, and carefully removed her sunglasses, tucking them in his back pocket. She broke their gaze just for a moment, glancing to the left to see if anyone was looking at that side of her face. Shireen seemed to remember herself, though, to remember him, and she lifted a bright, happy gaze his way.

“Better,” he said, and his voice was rough, dry from excitement. Not trusting himself to speak, he did the only other thing he wanted, had wanted for a while now. He cupped her face, bringing it up towards him, and slid his fingers past her ears, into her hair, and kissed her. She sighed into his mouth before they touched tongues, her suitcase forgotten beside her as she let go of the handle, sliding her arms inside his unbuttoned coat to wrap them around his waist.

There they stayed until, to Rickon at least, the airport seemed to disappear, noises around them fading and dulling into nothing. He was jostled a few times in the midst of the crowd, but paid it no mind. She tasted new and she tasted the same, and a thousand memories crowded his mind as he remembered her, the only good thing that had come to him back then, one of the few good things that had stayed. And then it was just Shireen, and him, and a kiss that was four years in the making.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Picset](http://jillypups.tumblr.com/post/117609827608/sweet-disposition-chapter-7)

January, Thursday, 10:30pm

He made her dinner as she browsed around his studio, steaming bowls of ramen noodles to which he had added sriracha, scallions and cubed chicken, and it was so utterly him, so simple and yet with just the right amount of flair to stoke the appetite and not to overwhelm. It was so _Rickon_ that she kept gazing at him over her bowl as she ate, trying in vain not to splash broth everywhere as she sucked up the noodles. He did the same, and they kept wiping at each other’s faces with their paper towel napkins, laughing as they ate their dinner over the coffee table, old episodes of Newsradio streaming on his laptop in the background.

Now he crawled to sit next to her so he too could see the laptop sitting on his desk. Slinging an arm over her shoulder, he pulled her to him, and she went willingly, her scarred cheek resting against upper arm. His long legs were stretched underneath the coffee table, and the couch was at their backs. After several moments, he glanced down to her, smiled, and picked up a lock of her hair, twisting and twirling it between his fingers.

Shireen had wondered how he would greet her, had wondered with a wildly hopeful heart if they would fall into each other again as easily as they had. She sipped her wine, a nice dry red ( _he must like bordeaux after all_ , she had thought with a smile when he poured for her), nipping the rim of her glass contemplatively before taking another swallow and setting it down. She drew her knees to her chest, turned her body more towards him, lifted her face from his shoulder to gaze at him.

“So. That was quite a kiss,” she said. He paused, his own glass of wine halfway to his lips. The wine glass was returned to the coffee table, and he fixed his attention on her, angling away from the laptop, moving his arm from her shoulders to rest it on the sofa.

“Did I outdo the Frenchie?” He asked, his blue eyes merry though he kept his expression neutral.

“Above and beyond,” she smiled.

“That was the plan,” he said with a grin at last, and she reached over, pinching his ribs. “Hey!”

“That was the only reason?” The moment she said it, she felt stupid. If there was anything she’d put a million dollars on in this world, it was that they understood one another. He looked at her, eyes serious.

“Of course not, you idiot,” he murmured, eyes on her mouth now; Shireen swallowed, feeling lightheaded from that. But then he stood up, stepping around the coffee table away from her, and she cursed herself inwardly, hating that her question had come off as doubt in him. He raked his hair back and a lock immediately fell forward again, and she wished she could push it back again. _He needs a haircut,_ she thought randomly, momentarily transported back in time to the night they’d had sex in the bathroom before she shaved the sides of his head, the buzzing of the razor being the thing that had finally alerted the staff; they’d been so good at silent love making. _Love._

She wondered if she’d pushed him away with her query, and wished she’d just kissed him instead. How many times did she have to remind herself that they were past this insecure bullshit? But he simply shut down the media player on his laptop, and her heart leaped when she saw that the photo of her naked body, her tattoo, was his wallpaper. He glanced over his shoulder, meeting her eyes when she lifted them to his, saying nothing.

Rickon turned on a playlist in iTunes and then disappeared into the kitchen, rummaging for something and flicking off the light when he returned with the half empty wine bottle. He padded in like a big cat, or a wolf, bare feet silent on the thin carpet, shoulders strong though they were thin. He refilled their glasses and sat back down beside her, but this time on the sofa, his kneecaps level with her shoulder blades. They were illuminated by the glow of the laptop and the small lamp behind it, a clashing of blues and oranges.

Shireen looked up at him, and again he was ready and meeting her eyes, saying something but nothing all at once. A breath caught in the back of her throat, and she turned to her wine, taking a long and thoughtful sip. Four years was how long it had been since they had been in the same room together, but she kept forgetting, this was him. This was her. This was easy.

She smiled, setting her glass down, taking up his instead before rising to her knees and turning to face him. She nudged his legs further apart, and he obliged her; she shuffled between them, resting her elbows on his knees, and held the glass out. His left eyebrow hitched up but he took it from her, took a sip as long and drawn out as hers, turning his head to the side slightly to keep eye contact with her as he drank. He stopped, swallowed, lowered the glass when she placed both her hands on his upper thighs, thumbs ghosting close to his zipper. She took it from him, set it back beside hers, and crawled up into his lap, straddling him.

He slouched beneath her, resting his head against the back of the sofa, his hands sliding up her thighs and under her sweater. “I want to see your tattoo.” She leaned into him, resting against his chest, her face inches from him.

“You already have,” she said, nodding her head towards his laptop.

“I want to touch your tattoo. Is that better?”

“It’s certainly more clear,” she smirked, sitting back up, letting him remove the sweater. She was wearing a tank top beneath it, and he _growled_ , actually growled in impatience, pushing up the fabric until it bunched beneath her breasts. _At least I’m not wearing a bra_ , _sweetheart_ , she thought with a smile.

She piled her hair on the top of her head and held it there with her hands, twisting her body, presenting him with the right side of her torso, watching him as his eyes roved over it, feeling his thumb sweep along the design. He sat up suddenly, his hands and forearms holding her steady as he bent her body back over his knees towards the floor. She arched her spine, let her hair go and her head sag back as he kissed her ribs, traced what she imagined were the cage’s bars with his tongue, making her whimper in all her helpless glory.

Rickon turned her body so it was square to his and kissed up past the bunched up fabric, pulling the shelf bra of her tank top down to kiss her between her breasts, lick and nip up to her throat before he finally sat back against the sofa, pulling her back with him. In this position she was taller than he, and her hair fell like a curtain around them both as he lifted his face to hers, as she kissed him with an open and hungry mouth.

“I want to see yours now,” she said after a few moments, and he breathed a laugh against her teeth.

“You showed me yours, I’ll show you mine.” She sat up, not bothering to pull her shirt back into place, and helped him take his t-shirt and thermal off over his head, messing up his hair even more so than usual. He flipped it out of his eyes and propped himself up with his right elbow, proffering her his left arm, bent inward in such a way so that she could see it fully.

“Oh, Rickon,” she breathed, fingers dabbing at the little black birds, the smaller, more vibrant canary there on the top telephone wire beside them. He slowly turned his arm so she could see the design on the inside of his arm, the wires that went all the way around, two more black birds perched on the lower of the two telephone wires. A single yellow feather, identical to the one at the bottom of her cage, floated some distance below the wires. It was beautiful. It was perfect.

“It’s beautiful,” she told him. “It’s perfect. It’s so you.”

“It’s you,” he said, sliding a hand into her hair. “I thought of you while drawing it. That means it’s _you_.”

“Am I the canary?” She said, coming close to his body, wishing now she wore no tank top at all. Clearly he was in agreement with her, as he pushed his hands up her sides and beneath the elastic band that went around her body, drawing it up and over her head as she lifted her arms in the air to set herself free.

“Yes,” he whispered, hands on her back pushing her towards him. He kissed each of her breasts, languorous kisses, full of fire, rich and fat with patience and purpose. “And I’m the crow beside you,” he murmured, nosing against her chest before taking a breast into his hot mouth. Her mind reeled.

 “Who’re the other birds?” She gasped, dug her fingers into his hair, tugging his head back so she could kiss his mouth, give back some of this love he was painting her body with.

 “A bunch of nobodys,” he said in a break of the kiss, and they laughed together, warm, breathless, giddy and content before Rickon kissed down her throat to her collarbone, back up to the pockmarked and scarred cheek, something she’d only ever let him do.

 That was it, then, Rickon and Shireen and a world full of nobodys.

It was the first time they’d ever been together without the threat of discovery, without the weight of it being wrong, somehow, no matter how right it had been. They were their own masters at last, and she understood why he was drawing it out, regardless of how late it was and that he had to get up early for work. He eventually slid sideways so that he was lying on his back, stretched to his full height with her still on top of him.

Rickon’s hands weren’t as busy as a typical 21 year old’s, preferring instead to just press her to him, to hold her tight as if she’d fly away like that little yellow bird on his bicep. He brushed her hair from her face to kiss her, to stare at her in the low light, and she looked back, rememorizing, regaining the common ground they’d so confidently built up together back at Skagos. He had already taken her leggings off and she was working on the fly of his jeans when she paused, frowning.

“Wait,” she said, straddling him so she could sit up. She shamelessly brushed her hair over her shoulder, giving him full view of her, and he groaned in protest, bucking his hips up slightly. She was resolute.

“Wait for what? Another four years?” He bucked his hips again, and she laid her palms on his chest as if to hold him at bay.

“We’ve had sex in a barn, a bathroom, a rec room sofa and a parking lot. I want to have you in a bed. I _get_ to have you in a bed, like a grown up.” Rickon laughed.

He slapped her hip and sighed. “Get off me then, so I don’t finish before we’ve even begun,” and Shireen happily scrambled off of him, emptying her wine glass before practically dancing across the room. She pulled back all the blankets and the sheets, delighted to find they were flannel and wouldn’t be freezing to the touch.

Before she could slip in and warm up, Rickon was behind her, completely naked from what she could tell, and she froze, gasping high and loud as he slid his hands down the plane of her belly, dragging her panties down with the gesture, pulling until they slid down of their own accord.

“Gods, Rickon,” she moaned, stepping out of her underwear, and he asked her to say his name again, his teeth against the shell of her ear. She did as he asked, turning to kiss him, to face him completely naked for the first time in their lives. He consumed her with his mouth and his tongue; she was gone, she was devoured, it was all over.

“I have _missed_ you, Shireen,” he said, and the pace of his administrations intensified, more nipping than kissing now, as she sat on the bed, pulling him above her before dragging the covers back over them. She panted, whimpered, greedy and impatient now as Rickon settled himself between her thighs, fingers already in her hair as he propped himself on his elbows. Her hips lifted when he slipped inside her, and then it was her name in her ear, over and over, and she was lost.

 

Rickon’s sleep was all over the place; his dreams were vivid, but then he’d wake and realize they were more like memories from just a few hours before, and that Shireen was in his bed, head on his chest, hair a sweep of light brown across his shoulder and against the side of his neck. Then he’d drift off again, lost in the tangle of her arms, happy with the knowledge that his sheets would smell like her the next day.

He woke her twice in the middle of the night, first from being too fascinated by this soft skin to keep from touching it, sending a hand down the dip of her waist as she slept on her side, up the swell of hip and down again towards her knee. When she stirred, he dipped his fingers to the juncture of her thighs, and her body jerked alive, a hand reaching back behind her to grab a fist of his hair as he kissed her ear, her mouth when she looked back at him.

 It only took that single touch, like the swipe of a match, to light her up, and they took each other again, on their sides, her back to his chest, rolling like a riptide against each other, and Rickon wanted her to never leave. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her hard against his hips and she cried out, and she begged him not to stop until she came in some dizzy rush, moving with him until he followed suit, and then they were falling asleep with flannel clinging to their skin, locked in position, exhausted, happy, together, together, together.

The second time, Rickon had eased away from her, scooting down to the foot of the bed rather than crawl over her, to use the bathroom and grab water. He shivered as he relieved himself, naked as he was, and he filled a glass as fast as possible before drinking half and setting it on the desk beside her side of the bed, in case she woke up as thirsty as he had.

“I wondered where you went,” she mumbled sleepily, and he started, not realizing she was awake. He chuckled and took care to climb over her, resuming his position, pulling her against him once more. She went willingly but twisted in his arms to face him. “You’re going to be a wreck, it’s like three in the morning.”

“I am going to be strutting like a peacock tomorrow,” he smiled, brushing the hair from her tired eyes. “And if I know you intend to stay in my bed all day, maybe in those ratty pajamas you used to have, then I’ll be on cloud nine. And a lot of caffeine.” She chuckled, pressed her forehead to his.

“I feel like it took too long,” she said. “Seeing you again. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Shir. We all have shit to do, I understand.” He had thought about it often, leaving everything, abandoning his trust fund by breaking free from his parents’ rules and confines to roam the earth with her.

“I know, but… I got all my money already, I could have flown you out. I could have taken you away.” He drew back, kissed her forehead.

“Nah,” he said, attempting lightness. “I was um, I was pretty fucked up for a while. Not like, crazy, just… I don’t have a lot of trust now, but back then there was even less. I gave it to Bran, and I don’t know if I would have had enough left over for you. For us.”

It was her turn to draw back, and she gazed at him in the darkness, her face barely visible to him in their little cocoon. “Us, huh?” and he heard the smile shaping her words into bright things, sweet things.

“Yeah, us. Asshole,” he grinned, brushing a thumb across her cheek before kissing her. His eyes were tired, and his lids drooped. He felt drugged with her, he was so tired, but so serene. Never had he felt this calm, not in many, many years. He yawned, pulled her closer, his arm draped over her tattooed ribs.

“Moron,” she whispered, kissing him back. And she folded her arms like wings between their chests, head tucked beneath his chin, and when Rickon would wake later, the alarm buzzing to life, he would find them in the same position.


	8. Chapter 8

January, Friday 5:38pm

 

Work had been a crazy fog, the clearest part of the day being a hushed conversation with Pod about his night with Shireen. Podrick had pressed for details but Rickon managed to maintain some level of secrecy, falling back instead on grins and a lot of “you know how it goes, man” comments. Other than that, there was nothing much that was memorable; a nap at his desk instead of lunch, which fueled him for an afternoon of downloading anti-virus software, rebooting computers, googling and subsequently fixing printer problems.

The drive back to his apartment had found him strangely reenergized, or perhaps not so strangely after all. He wasn’t necessarily trembling as he unlocked the door, and skipping lunch could be the culprit for shaking fingers, but the hammering of his heart was all Shireen Baratheon. He pushed open the door, half expecting to find her still naked and burrowed in his bed, the way he’d left her to drag his sorry carcass into the shower at 6:30am.

She was curled up in the corner of his sofa, a Kindle in her lap, smoking one of his cigarettes. A glass of wine was on the otherwise clean coffee table; the dishes from last night were absent, presumably washed and in the kitchen. He saw with a sliver of disappointment that she impeccably dressed, not in pajamas, that he’d missed that part of her.  No matter, they had time. He’d have the messy morning Shireen again, like he did so many years before. He closed the door behind him, looking back to her smiling face. She set the cigarette down in the ashtray.

“Sorry, I was sort of nervous about meeting everyone, so I thought I’d self-medicate a bit,” she said, unfolding her legs, standing and coming towards him. He unbuttoned his coat as they closed the small distance between them, the final space separating them being the short one between their mouths before they kissed.  Rickon gave a contented, weary sigh, rubbing her upper arms before bringing her in for a hug.

He sat back on the sofa with a  _whump_ , his head dropping against the back of the sofa. Shireen slipped the half smoked cigarette in his hands and he hummed his thanks as he took a long drag.

“I told you you’d be a wreck,” she said, but he just shook his head, gazing up at the ceiling.

“I have never been better. I just need another shower and a few slaps to the face and I’ll be bright eyed and bushy tailed.”

“I can help with one of those,” she said, and he turned his head to the side in time to catch the grin on her face. He rolled his eyes and finished the cigarette, wearing an idiotic grin of his own.

She asked him about his day and he returned the query, finding her answers more interesting; she took a frigid walk by the lake, ordered food after having to ask his neighbors what the address was, accidentally interrupting the couple mid-fuck across the hall during her quest. “He came to the door  _naked,_  Rickon. With a pillow over his dick,” she said, sitting on the closed toilet with her wine as he showered, and they both laughed.

The car ride to his family house was more quiet, more intense, and he chain smoked the entire way there, but made sure to remember to offer her one every time he lit up. She accepted about half, but when she asked how long they had until they arrived, and he said 15 minutes, she stubbed her cigarette out in his ashtray and pulled out two pieces of gum, chewing them vigorously as she stared out at the snowy suburban landscape.

“It’s going to be okay, okay?” She said suddenly, turning to him and grasping his hand. He turned his hand over on his thigh so he could lace his fingers with her, gave her an indefinable look. Finally he smiled.

“Leave it to  _you_  to comfort  _me_ when we go to my own parents’ house.”

“You’d be saying the same thing if the table were turned,” she smiled, folding the gum between her teeth, popping it before pushing it back between her molars. “But seriously. Don’t get all, you know, twisted up on yourself. Just relax. I’m here, and I’m here for you; I really couldn’t care about meeting them. I’m only here to see you.”

“I love you for that,” he said, giving her another glance, squeezing her hand before gently releasing it to shift into neutral as he slowed for a stop sign. Three mailboxes down, the driveway to his parents’ house awaited. He swallowed, turned back to her, pulled her in for a smoke-and-mint kiss, trying to keep the panic and desperation out of it.

“I know you do,” she said. She rested a hand on his shoulder as he shifted and drove forward, slower than necessary. They pulled up the driveway, and Rickon swore vehemently.

“For fuck’s sake, they’re all staring out like a bunch of monkeys at the zoo,” he said, and swore again, putting the car in park behind Sandor’s jeep.

“I think it’s kinda sweet. My dad and Mel certainly never stood up waiting for me, and fuck if my  _mom_  ever had that kind of anticipation for my arrival,” said Shireen, and he looked at her, slightly chagrined. She rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me pity eyes, bitch, just say ‘yes ma’am, that  _is_  sweet’ and move on.”

Rickon shook his head at her. “Yes ma’am, that  _is_  sweet,” he said in sing-song mockery, and she smacked his leg. They both grinned, but his dissipated far faster than hers, and suddenly he thought he was going to throw up or pass out. “Fuck,” he whispered, dropping his gaze from her. “I don’t know if I can do this. I’ve never told them anything, I’ve never even mentioned, I just… I can’t just show up with you like they even _deserve_ to know you, to know me. I don’t know. I don’t know.” The words came out in a rush, and if he could bite into them to stop them, he would.

“Hey,” she said sharply, glancing to the windows. He followed suit, was relieved to see that his family had scurried like mice when the lights come on. At least they had privacy. He felt like he couldn’t catch his breath. Shireen grabbed his face, giving it a tiny shake. “Hey.  _Hey._ You are fine, Rickon Stark, do you hear me? Everything is going to be okay. You’re going to go in there and introduce me and punch whomever makes fun of my face, like you did up in Maine. You’re going to drink some wine and then you’re going to eat your dinner, and then you’re going to take me back to your bed and fuck me again, okay?”

His vision swam and he realized there were tears in his eyes. He wiped them angrily away with his forefinger and thumb, careful not to disturb the grasp she had on his face. She was strong as iron when she had to be, and he felt it radiating through her hands and into his skin. He tried breathing through the constricting bands of anxiety wrapped around his chest, and with each exhale, they loosened. He stared back at her, eyes bluer, darker than his, fierce and full of love now. Finally he opened his mouth and released one more shaky breath before he felt normal again.

Shireen’s thumbs stroked against his cheekbones, pushing back the panic with each caress, and finally he covered her hands lightly with his own, closing his eyes a moment. “I’m okay.  I’m okay, now.”

“Good. Remember, they do love you. And I love you too. Now come on, sugar, get out of the car and open my door so your family thinks you’re some kind of gentleman.”

 

Shireen knew plenty about his family, despite his reluctance to discuss them, so she had no problems identifying who was who, though she feigned ignorance throughout the introductions. His mother, Catelyn, was beside herself she was so excited, and never had Shireen seen a woman glow with such happiness. Eddard Stark was the spitting image of how she’d imagined him, all straight of spine and weary of face, and he shook her hand warmly.

There was Arya, the boyfriend Gendry, Bran and Jojen, a woman she’d not heard of, his sister, Meera, and then Sansa, gorgeous Sansa and her son, and then Sandor. She knew all about his scars from Rickon, but had forgotten until now; the introductions with the others had been void of hesitation over her deformity, and now she understood why the family was so comfortable with it, and completely lacking in any sort of curiosity over its origins.

Sandor leaned in past Sansa to shake her hand, and she grinned at him. “Chicken pox,” she said, tilting the left side of her face forward, and he grinned in return, the ugly scars wrinkling on the one side, the unburned side an otherwise stern but decent looking guy on the other.

“House fire,” he said, displaying his own scarring, and she nodded her understanding. Arya, wild Arya who was almost as short as she was, grabbed her by the arm, dragging her away with a roll of her eyes.

“Now that you two are done being all special and crap, come tell me which beer is your favorite,” she said, pulling her towards the kitchen.

“I prefer wine, actually,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to Rickon, adrift in a sea of Starks, who grabbed her outstretched hand and followed her and his sister. Saving her, saving him.

“Ugh, for Stranger’s sake, you’re going to be as bad as Sansa if I don’t get my hands on you.”

“She’s as bad as she wants to be,” said Rickon, and Arya laughed at him.

“Well then I like her already,” Arya said, opening the fridge, rummaging around, pulling out three beers and a bottle of wine. “Wait, do you like white?” She said, holding the corked, mostly full bottle out. Shireen shrugged, smiling. She was no shrinking violet, and was not intimidated by the evening that stretched ahead, but Arya’s no nonsense, frank and open manner was setting her ease.

“All of it,” Shireen said, settling into a tall cocktail chair at the long stretch of countertop. Rickon forewent the other seats, which were soon filled by Gendry and Bran on either side of her, preferring instead to rest his folded forearms on the back of her chair. She tipped her head back slightly, felt the warmth of his chest, and was reassured, not only by his presence but by his calm; he had worried her in the car.

“Even better,” said Arya, sliding a beer to Rickon and her boyfriend Gendry. “Jojen, you and Bran like your fancy ass martinis, so I leave that to you. I pop corks and bottle caps, that’s about it.”

“She made a horrible bartender,” Gendry said in a stage whisper. “I had to fire her after one shift.” Arya stuck her tongue out at him, passed Shireen a glass of white wine and cracked open her own beer, hunching over the counter to talk with Shireen as Cat entered, bustling at the stove while Ned sipped a bourbon and talked with Jojen.

“So,” Shireen said after a sip, as Sandor and Sansa walked in through the other way into the kitchen, both of them leaning against the counter on the other side of the room. Sandor had the baby asleep against his chest, his little head facing his father’s scarred neck as he dozed. It was almost painfully endearing to watch them together; he was a hulk of a man next to such a beautiful, willowy woman, but there was serenity in his face. She reckoned it had much, if not all, to do with his new little family. “Who’s that little man?”

She knew his name, but had a hunch about how eager new parents are, and she was not mistaken. Sansa’s face illuminated as she introduced her son, gave his weight, his stats, the color of his eyes and how his hair was soft like duck down. She was radiant from love, and it made her even lovelier if such a thing were possible; Shireen listened attentively, nodding and smiling, but there was a wound on her heart to see such beauty, and it was pockmarked and ugly, exactly what she saw in the mirror.

Jojen and Bran were sweet to behold too, full of consideration for one another and soft, mellow looks. Jojen was as fine boned as Sansa, and Bran as all-American as he could get. She knew they’d been closeted for years, but were out now, and she was happy for them. It was their move that was occurring that had sent Rickon into a tailspin, but they deserved it, living together and being together, after hiding themselves for so long.

 Arya and Gendry were as much like Abbott and Costello as to be expected from Rickon’s emails and phone calls.  There were more friendly punches to the shoulder than kisses between them, but another sense of ease that had come from years together. It felt like slight robbery, considering she and Rickon had known each other the longest out of them all, but had had to be separated for half as long, had had to love each other as fierce friends first, lovers in secret.

She glanced over her shoulder at Rickon as he sipped his beer, wondered if one day they would live in the same city one day, the same block. Maybe one day share a bed for longer than a vacation. It filled her with hope, and she prayed for it to come true.

Meera was friendly and outgoing, though she had sent a lingering, curious gaze above Shireen’s head that was meant for Rickon, and it made Shireen wonder if that hadn’t been the source of his one night stand at Jon’s wedding. He’d not given names, and now she realized he’d done so out of tact, and not forgetfulness. It was a niggling thing, to have a face to a name, but she swallowed it back. It had been four years. She’d had a Pierre, he’d had a Meera.

She reserved her toughest criticism for his parents, much as she did for her own. Sure, Rickon’s wild vengeance had terrified them.  But he’d been a kid, a lost, beat up kid, and he’d been sent away when what he’d needed most was camaraderie, trust, loyalty, love.It was hardest for her to smile kindly to them, but it was almost equally as hard to not hope they’d like her, approve of her. Rickon was worth supressing a little attitude in trying to impress them.

In regards to Rickon’s comfort, the moment of truth was when she stood up to go use the bathroom, kissing him lightly in front of the entire family. There was the briefest lull in conversation, within which Rickon drew her closer to him and returned her kiss with far more fervor than she thought he would.

When she pulled away and gave him a smile, everyone acted as if nothing had happened, but when the bathroom door closed, in the hall between the kitchen and the den, the conversation roared with excitement. Shireen gazed at herself in the mirror, and flashed herself a dazzling smile before opening the door, and when she did Rickon was there, leaning against the door frame like some villain in a play, complete with rakish grin and arched eyebrow. She tugged his hair, pulling him back into the bathroom, and they made out in secrecy, her back pressed against the sink, for old time’s sake.

 

When Rickon and Shireen returned, conversation continued for another 15 or 20 minutes, and he was relieved that it had, so far, gone this smoothly. They’d all been curious about her travels, and classic Shireen amused them with funny stories, witty commentary about the French and the Italians, and made even Catelyn snort with laughter over one particularly colorful exchange in Paris.

Finally, their mother clasped her hands, gazing adoringly at the sea of young people crowded in her kitchen, and asked that they go through to the dining room.  _She’s probably so happy that I’m normal tonight, with a girl, like the rest of them,_  he thought. He could not, however, deny that he himself was pretty happy too.

So when his father clapped a hand on his back as he walked past with Shireen, for the first time Rickon didn’t shrug out from under it. He glanced to his father, a man who used to tower over him, a man his own height now, a man who now smiled at him. He gave his father a curt nod, and only drifted away to take his seat at the center of the table, while his father sat at the head.

Dinner was leg of lamb with green beans and shallots, mashed potatoes and a salad, and Cat beamed when everyone, Shireen included, praised her cooking. When he was relaxing between bites with his arm over the back of Shireen’s chair, Rickon’s compliment to the meal grinded all conversation to halt, and the entire family paused and stared at him, some with their forks hovering halfway to their mouths.

“What? I know how to be nice,” he defended, giving Shireen a small smile that was not as subtle as he had hoped.

“Yeah, after a girl sleeps over, maybe,” said Bran with a wicked grin, and even his father laughed. “A toast to Shireen,” he added, raising his wine glass. The others followed suit, and Rickon recognized a rarely experienced feeling rising up in him as pride. Pride for Shireen, pride for himself that he was at her side, and even pride for his family, something that had not surfaced in a long time.

“A toast to Shireen,” he whispered in her ear, tapping his glass against hers. Candlelight bounced around in the red of their wine, in the blue of her eyes.

“A toast to Rickon,” she murmured right back, chatting voices and laughter swelling up around them.

Arya kept getting up to replenish beers and drop more bottles of red wine off at the ends of the table, but Rickon waved away the third drink, stating his intentions to drive back to the city that night.

“But it’s Friday night,” Arya pouted, handing the rejected beer to Gendry. “We got tomorrow off. I wanted to play Cards Against Humanity after dinner,” to which Cat groaned, setting down her wine and holding her head in her hands.

“I cannot believe you got your father and me to play that game. I had to leave the room it was so crass,” their mother said, to which everyone laughed, even Sansa.

“If I recall correctly, mother dear,” the redhead said sweetly, glancing briefly to the baby monitor behind her on the buffet, “you actually had to leave the room because you were laughing so hard.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever played that game without having to rest my head on the table from laughing too hard, it’s too much fun,” said Meera, accepting Arya’s offer of more wine with a smile.

“See? I know Meera’s down, and Jojen and Bran are of course staying here this weekend. You and Shireen  _have_ to stay,” wheedled Arya.

He glanced at Shireen and she shrugged, smiling, seeming to say  _I’m fine with it if you are_. He remembered what she had told him in the car, however, and no matter how fun the game could be it could never trump a roll in the hay with her. Then something stuck out in his mind, and he turned back to Meera.

“It’s funny, I was sort of surprised to see you here,” Rickon said amiably, and Shireen’s hand stilled on his leg; he wondered if she had guessed the connection he had with her, and hoped she wouldn’t be mad when he told her. “I didn’t realize a game of cards and a boring road trip would be so enticing.”

“I’m not here for the move, dummy,” she laughed, gesturing to Jojen. Rickon glanced over and frowned at the intense look Jojen gave his sister, who was now too busy, perhaps a bit too buzzed, to notice. “I’m here to be a best man on Sunday. I’d say I hope the officiant isn’t too _judgy_ for a female best man, but then again, he’s a _judge_ at the courthouse!” and she laughed at her joke, merrily, before realizing that no one else was laughing with her. Her face fell, and the smile and laughter evaporated. “What? What’d I say?” She looked around and Rickon watched her, the blood draining from his face. By the time Meera looked at him, he already knew the rest of them were watching him as well. That was a feeling he was used to.

Jojen, Bran, Meera, Sansa and Sandor were on the opposite side of the table from Rickon, Shireen, Arya and Gendry. Rickon was dimly aware of Shireen saying his name, over and over, and while the entire family had yet to tear their eyes from him, there was only one person he could focus on.

_Bran_.


	9. Chapter 9

January, Friday 9:30pm

 

Rickon stood, and so did Bran and Sandor, the latter man’s right fist already clenched. Rickon shrugged Shireen’s hand off his arm, rougher than she’d have liked, and Gendry got to his feet as well, from his place on her right. The room seemed to darken from the corners in, zooming tight with an unsettling rapidity that made her stomach flip.

“Hey, man, let’s just calm down, okay.”

“Shut up, Gendry,” Rickon said. “You see,” he said, jabbing at finger at each person at the table, landing lastly on Bran, “this, _this shit right here_ , is why I don’t come over for _fucking_ family time,” he snarled, the volume of his voice escalating from below normal to a hoarse shout. “Because _I_ am not family, am I? Not really. I bet every one of you assholes knew about this, huh? Everyone did, but me.”

Shireen looked around; Jojen and Meera were staring so hard at the floor it was as if they were waiting for a portal to open up and sweep them away. Sandor still looked as wary and as dangerous as a wild animal. Sansa and her mother were fighting back tears, though Sansa was gazing intently at her brother while Cat stared at her hands. Arya looked terrified, and Gendry had a resigned look on his face, as if he’d seen this shit before, from one source or another. Finally Ned slammed a fist on the table, everyone save Rickon jumping, and her attention was stolen away by him.

“Now _that_ is enough,” his father said, voice rough with emotion. Ned Stark was still seated, but he did manage to command the table for a brief moment; all eyes swiveled to him. “You cannot talk to your family like that, I don’t care how angry you are.”

“You’re one to talk, _dad_ ,” he seethed, pressing his knuckles into the table as he leaned over it towards his father. The candles underlit his face like a horror movie. “Both of my parents, actually. You threw me away, didn’t you? What, tired after four other kids? Oh, but wait, you have no problem adding spares to your set, do you?” He said, waving towards Gendry and Sandor, who both stared at him in disbelieving anger. “So I guess it’s just personal.”

“Rickon, please,” his mother cried, a wavering hand covering her mouth. “Don’t say that, please don’t say that.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” He said, pushing off of the table to round on his mother. “Maybe I was just too much trouble, right? Too many calls at the fucking office for the both of you, huh? Robb and Sansa were nearly out of the house, Bran was busy being a fucking poster child, and Arya was busy getting stoned and blowing Gendry in her room. But I get beat up for a few months, so I get sent away like a fucking criminal, right? That makes perfect sense, _mommy¸_ you’re right, why should I say such a horrible thing like the fucking _truth_?”

Shireen stared in horror at the leftover food on her plate; the lamb had been so good, but now it was just a slain animal on her plate, as slain by her fork as the rest of the people around her by Rickon’s words. She glanced up and Meera was staring at her. The woman mouthed “I am so sorry” at her, but Shireen just shook her head, once, twice.

“Hey, man, tone it down, you’re mad at _me_ , right now, remember?” Bran leaned over the table, made an attempt to match anger with anger, but oh, it was an empty thing for Shireen to see. Nothing could match Ric’s rage. Not tonight.

 “Fine,” Rickon snapped, head whipping back to Bran like a venomous snake, and the older brother recoiled slightly under the murderous glare of his sibling. “Fine, Bran. Let me ask you: How could you hide this from me? How could you, Bran, _out of_ _all of these bastards,_ lie to me? The only one in this family I trusted,” he said, shaking his head, chuckling sickly. “I wasted it on you, too, I guess. I mean, _dammit,_ Bran, _you_ keep this from _me_? Of all people, you think _I’d_ be the one not happy for you? Do you even- Do you even- What I did? What I- You don’t even fucking get it,” he said, and his voice cracked, though no tears welled in his eyes.

Shireen’s heart broke; he had been beaten for Bran’s very nature, and he’d borne it as best as he could. She wanted to explain, as Bran looked equal parts confused and angry and scared. _Tell them, baby, tell them,_ she pleaded in silence, hoping it would somehow steal into Rickon’s brain.

It didn't. Instead he pinched the bridge of his nose so fiercely she wondered if he’d break skin.

“No, I don’t get it, I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Bran said, extending a hand towards his brother, trying to appeal to their bond. But he’d broken it; Shireen could see that plain as day. A hasty glance around the table proved that she was the only one there without the fruitless hope that his anger might dissipate, that the night might magically turn on its head and end peacefully, a family playing a game.

“I was, okay, look. I was going to talk about the moving thing with you, but it got away from me,” said Bran, and here Arya slumped down, hiding behind her water glass as she pretended to drink from it.  “But then, you know, Bryon was born and we just, you know, we didn’t want to push a lot of change on you. To mention the wedding, and hey, you know, I want you as my best man, for gods’ sake, but it seemed like a lot to drop on you. I will be the first to admit it, I didn’t do this right, I’m sorry. Ric, please, believe me, I know I didn’t handle it right, but you can’t be mad at me for trying to live my life.”

Rickon sneered at his brother. “You can live any motherfucking life you want, brother. Trust me, of any of us at this godsdamn table, I’m the one who has always believed that. The thing that sucks though? Is that you seem to think I can’t handle anything. And hey, fuck it, right guys?” He outstretched his arms, crucifying himself on his own anger and his family’s betrayal, a sickening laugh escaping him as he gazed down at everyone, rage lit up behind his eyes. “Maybe I fucking can’t. I sure as shit can’t handle my brother _lying to me_ , twice, in the span of what, baby, what’s it been, a few weeks?” He stared down at Shireen. She looked up at him, brows knitted together so hard she already had a headache, and she did not recognize this man.

“Gods, can’t you just calm down?” said Arya. He turned, stared at her, dead-eyed, picked up his wine glass and pounded the entire thing; fleetingly Shireen figured she could drink enough water to get them home, she could drive them, if they just waited like an hour. She’d GPS the way home, _I can find it, I can even drive stick_ , but then she realized, sadly, she’d known exactly where this evening was headed the moment he had stood up.

“Rickon, honey, why don’t you slow down on the wine,” Sansa said softly, and Shireen saw how tightly she was clenching the baby monitor. She was terrified. Shireen looked to the father of that baby, and there was murder in his gray eyes. She swallowed, made a move to appeal to Rickon once more. This was them. This was easy, right? She’d seen him angry at Skagos. She’d seen the rages. She could help. Right?

But then he moved swiftly from her, grabbed a bottle of wine that was still sitting by Ned’s plate, though Ned made a failed move to snatch it away.  Rickon headed out of the dining room, a cigarette already pulled from his pack, already in his fingers. “Fuck the whole lot of you,” he spat over his shoulder leaving Shireen in the middle of ground zero, the fragments of his family’s collective heart shattered all around her.

“Rickon, please!” Shireen cried out, desperate, standing swiftly to follow him. Rickon spun around on his heel, the wine bottle drawn back and raised in his hand. It was nearly full, and the degree to which he tipped it cause a few drops to fall, and a rivulet of the stuff to bleed out, coursing in a thin stream down the side of the bottle and onto his fingers. There was a feral look in his eyes ( _he looks like a kid all over again)_ and they were looking at her, but did not see her. Not the way he’d seen her, always, always before. She cringed, instinctively backing away from that look.

He snarled an incoherent tangle of useless, hateful words at them all and flung the bottle towards the far corner of the room. Everyone ducked, arms braced protectively over their heads, and the five women in the room screamed.  Red wine arced through the air like blood, ruining the tablecloth, splashing Cat, Jojen and Meera, hitting the ceiling so hard it dripped down like some cheap haunted house effect, onto the leftover lamb, the half empty plates, long after the bottle shattered against the joining of the two walls.

Shireen’s thoughts clashed violently in her head; _How dare he, how fucking dare he try to hurt me_ and _He aimed for the corner, I have seen these rages in group therapy, he did not aim at me_ and then the most rushed and panicked _I need to leave I need to leave I need to leave I have to go I have to go I cannot be trapped again._

Tears came out of nowhere, and Shireen sobbed out loud, much to her horror. She clapped a hand over her mouth. All that time in Skagos, and here she was, crying in front of strangers. She had spent the majority of her life surrounded by strangers, never letting them in for one single moment of pain, and yet here she was, stripped bare from the inside out. She hated him, in that moment, so ferociously that he no longer scared her.

“Somebody needs to give me a ride,” she said, her voice hitched and gaspy and foreign, but she lifted her chin all the same.

“I’ll go,” said Sansa, her voice barely a whisper. Sandor glared at her, angry at her volunteer, but she shook her head no to his sparked temper. “I’m the only one who hasn’t had a single drink,” she said quietly. “Keep an eye on Bryon,” she said to her mother, who nodded weakly, and then she stood up, walked cautiously towards the door, her eyes on her still panting and rage blind little brother.

Shireen stormed out first; Rickon seemed to snap out of his fog as she brushed by, and he made to grab her arm, but she turned and slapped him with everything she had. His head snapped back like whiplash. She didn’t bother waiting to see his reaction, and left the room.

 

Rickon’s left eye felt like it could explode, and he staggered back. _Strong Shireen,_ an old shade of himself seemed to whisper from a thousand years ago, though it had said it out of pride, then, and not aftershock. And then the anger subsided, the pain in his face bringing him down, the raised voices and sobs erupting around him out of nowhere, and he suddenly realized what had happened. _Shit. Shit, oh fuck, I can’t believe I threw the bottle, oh gods, no._

“Shireen!” he yelled at her retreating figure, knowing she was headed to the door, away from him. “Shireen, no. Please don’t leave, I am so sorry!” He went to follow her, shoving past Sansa who was in the doorway, but a hand made of concrete wrapped itself around his right arm. _Nobody will keep me from her, not anymore._ He spun around, ready to spit in rage like a cat, only to face Sandor, the scarred man’s face contorted in fury. “Let go of me, you fuck,” he snarled, and he drew back his left fist. Before it made any connection, the front door slammed and he felt the sickening crack of four knuckles against his face.

Sandor released him and Rickon fell to his knees, dazed beyond belief, though he could still hear the sobs of his mother, the raised voices of others. Someone rushed past him, and the force of their passage made him sink down so that he sat back on his heels. He felt 13 again, and he felt very small, and he felt very stupid. He was slack-jawed, there was a thick rush of blood from his nose, and he coughed as it ran into his open mouth. His eye was already swelling shut from Shireen’s enraged slap. This felt too familiar.

Something splattered on his head and he looked up; the ceiling looked as if it dripped with blood. This seemed like the place he always belonged. On his knees, bloody, pain raining from the sky, from the wicked gods that always looked down on him with derision. Someone tried to pull him to his feet, hands under the armpits, but he knew that feeling, and he thrashed feebly, his vision already turning to twilight.

“Fuck you,” he said, the blood thick on his tongue, famous last words before the blackout took him, and the last thing he heard was the wet _squick_ of his bloody face hitting the expensive carpeting in his parents’ dining room.

 

“You should ice that,” Gendry said, already turning towards the freezer as Sandor entered the kitchen. His fist was throbbing though the skin wasn’t broken, and normally he’d literally just shake out the pain. But tonight he’d take the ice, anything to keep another bicker from happening. Sandor sighed. After Rickon had passed out, face down in the dining room, he’d taken the kid upstairs to one of the guest rooms, slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He’d momentarily come to, lifting his head away from Sandor’s back. “There’s blood on your shirt,” he’d said, the blood in his nostrils and mouth making him sound like he had a cold.

“Aye, and there’s blood on yours. All over the carpet, too,” he’d replied, but Rickon had gone slack, likely from all the blood rushing to his head and out his nose again, due to the position he was in. Better that way, as Sandor was still livid from Rickon shoving the mother of his child into the wall. He couldn’t trust himself not to knock the little shit out a second time.

For the time being, he was sleeping off his tantrum and the entire glass of wine he’d slugged before flipping his shit, and Sandor was using that time to calm down. He took the ice from Gendry, draped the pack across his knuckles and both men checked in on the dining room. Everybody but Ned was there, Cat and Bran scrubbing Rickon’s blood from the carpet while Meera and Arya balanced, the former on a chair and the latter on the table itself in her bare feet, tending to the wine on the ceiling. Jojen was squatted in the corner, picking up shards of glass and dropping them into a salad bowl from the table. No one spoke.

Sandor sighed again checked his phone for the fifth time to see if Sansa had texted or called, and sought out his boss and future father in law, knowing where he’d be. “Safe to say tonight was a disaster,” he said gruffly, walking through the open door to Ned’s office, sitting down in the chair in front of the man’s desk. The father of five was leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

“We all had such high hopes. I would love to blame it on Bran, if only because he could take it and accept and process through it. But this, this was all Rickon.”

“It was still a risk to keep secrets from a man who doesn’t trust his own family,” Sandor said bluntly. Ned gave him a look with raised eyebrows, but he just shrugged. “It’s true.”

Ned sighed. “I know. But the other members of this family are allowed to live their lives and do what they want and need without checking in with Rickon first. He has got to learn to control his reactions, and that horrible temper.” He rubbed his face. “That poor girl. She was terrified, and she’d grown up with him.”

Sandor nodded, lost in thought. He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering if this was his place, and then he sighed, deciding it was. “You know my past, Ned.”

“The arrests. The DUI. The fighting.” Hearing Ned Stark say it so frankly made Sandor wonder why the man had even trusted him as bodyguard.

“Yeah. Well, there was a long stretch of time between those things and when I first came into your employ,” he said slowly. “A lot of... therapy happened during that stretch, and it helped me lay to rest the man I had been, gave space to let the man I am now come to be. I’d not be able to be with Sansa, unless that had happened.”

“Believe me, I know,” Ned said dryly, heaving a sigh before pouring himself a finger of bourbon, offering one to Sandor, one that was accepted, and sipped slowly.

“Aye, well, this poor girl, Shireen, she deserves a man who is able to be just that, a man, for her. And Rickon clearly needs help with that. And, I think that, despite his outburst, he deserves her. He deserves to heal up, and get rid of all that anger.”

“We can’t force him into rehab, and quite frankly I think us suggesting he go off to another institution or center, or what have you, would have the opposite effect.”

“It’s not a center, I’m talking about, and it’s not sending him away, either. That road nearly ruined him once. Trust me, Ned,” Sandor said, unashamed and meeting the man’s eyes, even while referencing his darker past. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Rickon and mention it to him.”

Ned’s shoulders sagged with relief. “That would be… I’d really appreciate that. I think at this point, anyone could approach him, so long as their last name isn’t Stark.”


	10. Chapter 10

January, Friday 10:08pm

 

The guest room’s light had not been turned on, and when Sandor approached he saw that Rickon was sitting up on the floor, his back against the bed, in the square of light that shone in from the hallway. Sandor’s shadow fell across him. He was shirtless, though that was no surprise; the thing was a mess. He was scrubbing halfheartedly at his face with it, drawing it back after every swipe, frowning each time he saw more blood come off. The younger man looked up, a black eye already blossomed on his face, blood smearing his upper lip and chin like some sick sort of goatee.

To his credit, he merely nodded a hello, void now of any sign of the fury that had overtaken him downstairs. Sandor took that as an invitation and came into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed furthest from the door, so Rickon would not feel penned in, trapped. He leaned his forearms against his thighs and bowed his head, trying to find words, waiting to see if the other man had any.

“Did she leave?” Rickon finally said, his voice raw from all the yelling, dried out from the wine.

“Aye.”

“I should go,” he said, struggling to get to his feet. Sandor laid a hand, light but flexed, on his shoulder.

“Sansa texted me. They’re together at your apartment. Shireen has asked that you stay here for the night.” The tension fled the shoulder beneath his hand, and Sandor removed the touch, briefly considering giving Rickon a pat beforehand. Despite his unbelievable behavior and his temper, he felt bad for Rickon.

“Okay,” Rickon said, and there was a sad, listless flag of surrender to the sound of his voice.

Sandor turned and regarded him. His hair had fallen in his eyes, but even without that, he very much doubted he’d be able to read anything in his expression. Closed off once more, after ripping open the floodgates to let everything out, to try and drown everyone else with him, taking no prisoners. He shook his head slightly, let his gaze drop.

“What’s that?”

Rickon finally looked at him, saw the focus of his look and glanced down at his arm. He chuckled bitterly, coughed and spat some blood in the wad of his shirt. “A tattoo. Shireen and I got them. Together sort of, but not.” Sandor thought that description fit their romantic life as well. He squinted in the near darkness, finally picking out details of the tattoo.

“Looks like you’ve got yourself a little bird, too, then,” Sandor said softly, and Rickon rolled his eyes, smiling sarcastically.

“Yeah, right,” he said, bunching up the shirt again to hide the glob of blood as he pressed a clean spot gingerly to his nose. “Easy for you to say, the man with the fairy tale.”

Sandor snorted, giving Rickon a look of incredulity. “You cannot believe I’ve lived a fairy tale of a life. Have you seen my face, mate?”

“You still got the girl, a new family. My family, too, if I can even really call them that.”

“I didn’t take you for such a blind idiot, kid, but you’re proving it the more you say,” Sandor said gruffly, rubbing his forehead.

“Don’t call me a kid,” Rickon said, though like the rest of the conversation, it was lacking any emotional fire.

“I’m nearly twice your age, kid, so it makes sense. 20 years ago, I was a high school dropout. 20 years ago you were still playing with your wee toes,” he said. Rickon had no retort for that.

“You dropped out?” He lowered the bloody t-shirt to look at him fully, and Sandor regarded the nasty thing with disgust. He grabbed it from Rickon’s hands, left the room briefly to dump it in the bathroom sink, and returned with a damp washcloth, tossing it in his lap.

“Aye,” he replied, sitting down heavily on the floor beside Rickon. _Gods, I feel old._ “And then spent the next 10 years in and out of jail. Drinking like a sailor. Fighting anyone who looked at me.”

“You went to _jail_?” and Sandor had to chuckle.

“You never once looked at me and wondered about my scars? About my temper? About my past?”

“Honestly? No. And I’ve never really seen your temper. Not until, you know,” he said, waving his hand towards his face. Sandor frowned.

“Sorry about that, but--”

“Don’t be,” Rickon said.. “I deserved it.” He was silent for a while. “You said to Shireen it was a house fire. I always knew it was fire, but house fire… Was it your house? Did you set it?”

“No,” Sandor murmured, clearing his throat, willing himself to speak evenly. “My brother, Gregor. I was 17. He was mad, mad as a loon, always had been, but it got worse as he grew up and out and big as an ox. He, hmm.” Sandor closed his eyes. “He got very angry, often, but one night, angrier than ever before. He set our house on fire. Our parents, our sister, were in their beds, but I was awake, playing this old video game. By the time I got to that part of the house, I couldn’t get to them. Stranger knows I tried,” he said, rubbing his scarred cheek. “My mother told me to save her mother’s silver, to get myself out. So I did. I left them to burn.”

When Sandor mastered his emotions and trusted himself again, he swallowed and turned to look at Rickon, who was staring at him in horror, the washcloth a clutched, forgotten thing in his hand.

“Did your brother escape?”

“He walked out of there, flames at his back. Never saw him until I had to identify the body at hospital, a few years later. He OD’d on something, thank the gods, but I always wished it had been by my hand.” He inhaled deeply, willing himself to exhale slowly, steadily. “So no, I do not have a fairy tale life.”

“Fuck, man,” Rickon mumbled, remembering himself, returning to the task of cleaning his face. “I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I’d be had I not come to my senses and figured my shit out,” Sandor said, throwing casual to the wind and pinning Rickon with a very pointed look. He looked back, reading Sandor after a few beats, and sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, I see. You’re not sharing, you’re _guiding_ , by example,” he said, and there it was, a spit of fire, a spit of resentment.

“If you want me to guide you by example, then I’ll be seeing you after a decade of off and on incarceration, kid,” Sandor said with a grunt as he got to his feet. “You’ll nearly kill yourself and earn a DUI after one stupid joyride. Then you’ll work like a dog for a few years to earn enough money to surgically fix the broken nose you got in a barfight. If that sounds like a good example, be my guest. But if you ever want to work smarter, not harder, and get a fucking grip on your life so your girl will forgive you and come back to you, then you come and talk to me. For now, though, go take a fucking shower and get some sleep.”

Sandor glanced down once as he walked past Rickon and out of the room. The younger man was staring at the damp, bloody washcloth in his hand, and whether he was seeing his future or an escaped fate, there in the stains, Sandor had no idea.

 “Hey,” Rickon said as Sandor headed into the hall. The scarred man looked over his shoulder.

 “Yeah?”

 “Will she forgive me, you think?”

 “I don’t know. I reckon it depends on how well you grovel, and how sincerely you pay your penance.”

 

Shireen had been silent in the car for the entire time, but after Sansa had opened Rickon’s apartment with Bran’s spare key, she had sat down shakily on the sofa, held her face in her hands and started talking.

“I can’t believe he did that. After everything…I’ve known him since I was 14,” she whispered into the stillness of his apartment as Sansa quietly closed the door and flicked on the lights. “I never thought he would hurt me, or even try. He has hated the entire world for as long as I’ve known him but never once has he aimed any of it at me.”

“I’m just so sorry it all turned out like this,” Sansa said. “I could kill Bran.” She sat down carefully beside her, hands in her lap. “I feel like whatever we do, it just turns to hell with Rickon. I’m not saying he doesn’t owe you a massively huge apology, but I just feel like we ruined him. We ruined him for you and for that, I’m so, so sorry, Shireen.”

 Shireen bit down on her lower lip, feeling it tremble between her teeth from the weight of an inevitable cry. Sitting here in his apartment was killing her; he was everywhere, in her mind, in her heart, and now on the walls and in the bed they’d lain in. She remembered his hands on her hips and her breasts, the firm plank of skinny boy muscles from his chest to his loins, pressing against her back as they moved, his arm holding her to him, his lips on her ear as he murmured her name, over and over and over again.

 The tears came unbidden, but she did nothing to staunch the flow, letting them slide down her cheeks and over her hands. He had terrified her with that stunt with the wine bottle, and she had never once felt fear of Rickon since she’d known him. But she’d seen his rage and his fury in therapy, during exercises that were meant to be cathartic but were fire and fuel to him. She’d thought he’d gotten over it, mostly, but he was still the same angry kid. It hadn’t gone anywhere, it hadn’t dissipated or burned up, it had just festered. Fermented. Smoldered.

 Sansa laid a gentle hand on her back and started sweeping circles across Shireen’s shoulder blades, and she found comfort in the motherly display. Suddenly she lifted her head, hiccupped, turned watery, mascara-ruined eyes to the redhead.

 “Bryon,” she said breathlessly, “You’re a mom, you can’t be here. It’s so late,” she said.

 “I don’t want to leave you,” Sansa said simply with a shrug. “He’s in good hands, he’s with my mom and Sandor. I will have to feed him soon, but, I can’t just _leave_ you here all by yourself.” Sansa stood and walked to the bathroom, returning with some toilet paper. She handed it over and Shireen accepted it with thanks, wiping underneath her eyes, pulling it back to see how much eye makeup came away.

 “I can’t stay here,” Shireen said, “Not with Rickon all over the place. It’s breaking my heart. I need to get a hotel room.”

 “Nonsense,” Sansa said. “Let me help you pack your stuff, and then come to our place. We have a spare room. I’ll get you settled and then go back and pick up Sandor and the baby. We’ll leave Rickon a note.”

 “I couldn’t possibly impose like that,” she said, and Sansa laughed, though it was full of sadness.

 “After what happened at my parents’ house? I think the ones who have been doing all the imposing have been Starks.”

 They made short work of the few belongings Shireen had actually unpacked, and soon they were back in the jeep heading towards Sandor and Sansa’s house. Again, the car ride was mostly silent, until Sansa spoke.

 “I dated this guy, back in Arizona when I was in college,” she said. “He was popular, gorgeous, well off, full of charm. The perfect guy,” she said with a bitter downturn of her mouth. “Once we got past the I-love-yous and the Together-Forevers, he started hurting me.”

 Shireen stared at her, the car dark but for the bloom of light coming from streetlamps and traffic lights, illuminating Sansa’s face. She opened her mouth, closed it again.

 “Yeah, well. I was so stupid, and so naïve that I stayed. I stayed with him a long time, unfortunately. Joff was a sick bastard, and he got off on making me hurt. I know Rickon is not that kind of person. I know he’s a good man.”

 “I know that,” Shireen said sadly. “I know he doesn’t want to hurt me. But he could have. That’s scary.”

 “It was terrifying, yes. He has to figure himself out, and do something, really _do_ something about his anger. He’s just… Oh, gods, I think he’s just absolutely broken. I wish I knew how to fix him.”

 “Rickon told me that your mom has never said she was sorry,” Shireen said. Sansa glanced sharply to her before returning her eyes to the road.

 “I did not know that,” she said quietly. “I think my mom doesn’t want to admit that she made a really, really bad call. You know, I’ve only been a mom for like two months, but the idea of hurting my son or damaging him in some way is like my biggest fear and horror now. So I think she’s trying to push beyond it, and try to leave it in the past. I tried that too, with other, rougher stuff in my life, but it doesn’t work. You have to process through it and shake it out. She needs to do that, I know.”

 “If she apologized, maybe Rickon could let go. Maybe he could shake it out too.”

 “Maybe,” Sansa said. “Or maybe she’s worried that there will be a repeat of tonight, except times like a thousand.”

  

He was given a wide berth the next day; no one was downstairs when he awoke, earlier than usual for a Saturday, and Rickon was fairly certain it was intentional. He left as soon as possible, closing the front door loud enough so the house would know their tormentor was gone. He locked it and immediately lit a cigarette, standing on the front porch for a few moments as the horrors of last night washed over him.

 The look on Shireen’s face as she hauled off and slapped him had been murderous, and he saw it now whenever he closed his eyes. _What have I done?_ _Will she still love me?_ Her love was something that had been a constant in his life since shortly after they’d met. The idea that he had jeopardized that constancy wrapped its clammy fingers around his heart, and he felt cold inside for it.

 Rickon got into his car, glancing habitually in the rearview. He winced at his reflection, the swollen crescent of purple under his left eye, his still-swollen nose that was blessedly unbroken, the red-rimmed eyes of a man who had not slept well. He looked as wonderful as he felt.

 The drive back to his apartment was an anxious one, and he felt like he hit every red light imaginable, each one a silent little “fuck you” to him, a middle finger to his desire to salvage things with Shireen. Finally he arrived, and he took the stairs two at a time in his eagerness to see her.

 “Shireen?” He called out, voice cracking like a pubescent boy as he walked in, turning his back to the place as he closed and locked the door behind him. “Are you here?”

 He was hoping she was in the bath or something as he walked towards his bed, peering down the room and into the kitchen, when he glanced down and saw the note on his pillow.

He read it, and was crushed to see it wasn’t even Shireen’s hand, but his sister's.

_Hi little brother. Shireen didn’t want to stay and I didn’t want her to be by herself tonight. We’re safe at our place. I love you, Ric. – Sansa_

He sighed heavily, crumpling the note in his hand before tossing it back onto his bed, sitting down beside it. Rickon picked up one of his pillows, the one she’d used, and pressed it to his face, ignoring the pain from the pressure. He inhaled deeply, and sure enough found her scent. His heart ached, and pounded with the ugly knowledge that he’d been the one to push her away. He lowered the pillow and clutched it to his chest, closing his eyes. Her angry face swam up. Slap. Stars behind his eyelids, pain on his face.

Several minutes passed before he finally released his grip on the pillow and placed it reverentially back in its spot on his bed. Rickon sniffed, winced, rubbed the side of his face that didn’t hurt. He had only been to Sansa and Sandor’s place a few times but he knew their neighborhood. With his keys still in hand he crossed the room back to his front door, pulling it open hastily, only to see Bran standing there, fist raised and about to knock. Bran stepped back in surprise, looked at his raised hand and then lowered it.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Rickon said with a frown. His anger had passed but there was an open wound in its place, and the sight of his brother set it to bleeding again. To his credit, Bran looked miserable, and he fortified himself with a deep breath.

 “I am here to apologize.”

“Well, I need to go see Shireen,” he said sharply, and then stopped himself. “So make it snappy.” Bran brushed past him into his apartment, and Rickon sighed, walking after him, closing the door again. Rickon leaned against the door, arms crossed over his chest.

Bran sat on his desk, hands gripping the edge as if for borrowed strength, and looked at his brother. “I didn’t tell you about the move because I knew you would be upset. I really wasn’t looking forward to it, so I just… I avoided it. I know I should have just been up front with you, but I knew it would blow up into this huge thing, this huge Rickon Thing, and I wanted it to be mine. Just mine. I didn’t want to share it. I didn’t want to devote time to making you feel okay about it. I got really selfish, and I’m really, really sorry.”

 “Okay,” Rickon said, and it sounded as hollow as he felt. He wasn’t sure _what_ to feel, or to think, hearing Bran say that.

 “And I didn’t tell you about the wedding, because I had already fucked up with the moving thing. It just snowballed, and it turned into this bigger issue than it should have been.” Bran sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I feel like an idiot. I’m really sorry.”

 “You know I could never be upset with you wanting to get married, dude. Right?”

 “I know,” Bran said. “I know that, brother. Hell, you were the first person I came out to."

“Besides the dude you were in love with, you mean,” he quipped, unable to keep the smirk out of his voice, off his face, and Bran looked relieved.

“Yeah, besides him,” he said with a smile. Rickon returned it, but it faded in time.

“And, hey, yeah I would’ve been sad over you leaving, but what really sucked was hearing it from Arya, and not you. I can handle the idea of you spreading your wings or whatever, but I can’t handle the idea of you lying to me. It makes you feel farther away than even mom or dad, man. 

“Don’t say that, man, that’s harsh,” Bran said with another smile, and even Rickon chuckled.

“You’ve been the only person in my life I have always trusted,” he said. “Well, you and Shireen. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to add to that list, but I really don’t want to take anyone off of it, okay?”

“Okay,” Bran said, and he shoved off the desk and gave his brother a hug, one that was fiercely returned. They parted, and both men had smiles and relief on their faces. “So, will you be my best man?”

“On one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You stop yapping at me and let me go get my girl.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, we've got a lot of Arya/Gendry this chapter, yay!

January, Saturday 11:00am

 

Rickon stood on his sister and brother in law’s porch ( _a man who punches you and tries to set you back on course in one night is already family,_ he thought), cell phone in his hands, gloves pulled off and shoved in his coat pockets. His palms were sweaty despite the snow on the ground and the bite in the air. There were plenty of excuses as to why he was hesitating - remorse, horror, embarrassment, fear, humiliation all went through his head - but there was one that scared him most at the moment, and that was waking a baby.

No, scratch that. There were two things that scared him at the moment. Waking Bryon, and fucking up this apology. He wanted to text Shireen, see if she was up and if she’d speak with him, but then, this was Sansa’s house, so should he text her first instead? See if her son is up, if she’ll even let him in, if  _Sandor_  will let him in? And so he was rooted to the spot, staring at a blank message, an  _S_ already typed in, a thumb hovering over an  _h,_ then over an  _a._

“Godsdammit,” he muttered, frustrated with himself, and then nearly jumped out of his skin when the locks on the door turned and it cracked open. A sliver of grumpy looking Sandor was revealed.

“What do you want? Selling magazines? Candy bars? Cookies?”

“Cookies are from  _Girl_ Scouts,” Rickon snapped, and Sandor barked a laugh at him.  _Well, at least I know the baby must be awake._

“Fine then. Cigarettes and condoms, coming from you,” he grumbled, but stepped aside, opening the door further to let Rickon in. He did so, realizing from the sudden rush of warmth how cold he’d been standing there like an idiot.

“Is um, is she still here? She didn’t leave, did she?” He wanted to sound strong, confident, all business, but his voice and his query betrayed his worry, his fear, his insecurity.

“She is.” As if on cue, there were two peals of feminine laughter coming from deeper within the little house, and then a shriek and a giggling request for Sandor to bring another burp cloth. “They’re with Bryon,” he explained. “Little man woke us up at 5am but to see Sansa you think she’d slept in this morning. He’s just up from a nap, now, but if you think either of us went back to sleep with him, you’re fooling yourself.” And the source of Sandor’s grouchiness was made clear. Now that Rickon truly looked at the older man, he could see the weariness in his face. Sandor didn’t look much better than he did.

“Can I just…?” He waved towards the direction the laughing was coming from and Sandor nodded. Rickon walked past him, towards the TV room in the back by the kitchen, tentatively. He was suddenly overcome with nerves, and only then truly realized how terrified he was of Shireen’s anticipated rejection, her fury with him for his behavior.

He was nearly through the front room and approaching the kitchen, but clearly he took too long. “Oh for fuck’s sake, where did you leave your balls? Go on, say you’re sorry. Preferably on your knees,” Sandor said, shoving him lightly between the shoulder blades with his fingertips. Rickon staggered forward a bit, and swallowing his pride, ignored Sandor’s jibe.

“Here, take this to your sister,” Sandor said, draping over his shoulder a cloth with bright yellow baby ducks on it. Rickon stared at it, then up at Sandor, at a loss for words. Sandor shrugged and walked out of the room, his socked feet shuffling quietly on the wood floors. Rickon pressed on.

The sofa was along the left side of the room, and Shireen was sitting tailor style on the end of it, facing the doorway in which Rickon now stood. Sansa was beside her with the baby, but Rickon didn’t see them, he had eyes only for Shireen. The air left his lungs in a long sigh, and Sansa and Shireen both looked up.

“Rickon,” breathed Shireen, her face a conflict of emotions.

“Ric,” said Sansa. “I didn’t hear the doorbell.”

“I uh, I didn’t ring it,” he said, finally tearing his eyes off Shireen to look at his sister, to thank her for helping. But all he saw was the baby on his side, face against his sister’s bare breast. “Maiden, Mother and Crone, Sansa,” he swore, spinning on his heel to present his back to the scene. “Could you warn a man, maybe?”

“Well, sorry, pal, I didn’t know you were coming,” she huffed playfully. He glanced warily over his shoulder, and saw her getting to her feet, somewhat clumsily with the baby still pressed to her, but effectively all the same. She came towards him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, turning his head and closing his eyes as she snagged the burp cloth off his shoulder.

“How about you get out of my way? Unless you want this to be a touchy-feely experience, too?”

Rickon gaped at her, this woman who used to be so soft spoken and shy, and then practically leaped out of her way.  He chanced another peep at her, focusing so hard on her face that his peripheral vision blurred even more.  _Good_ , he thought, all too painfully aware of what was happening down below.

“Be good to her,” Sansa murmured as she passed him. “You really upset her. She loves you, but you messed up, honey.”

“I will. I know. Hey, and I’m sorry too, Sansa. I’m sorry you had to see that, and I’m sorry I pushed you.”

“Thank you. And I know you are,” she said, giving him a soft smile over her shoulder before disappearing down the hall towards her bedroom.

He turned around to face the room again, and though it was small, about the size of his own studio, Shireen looked even smaller in it, curled in around herself, knees drawn into her chest, arms locked around her shins. But she was looking at him, and he could have fallen to his knees and praised the Seven for that small gift.

“Hey," he said, sticking his hands in his coat pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Before, uh, before you say anything, if you even _want_ to say anything, I just want to tell you how sorry I am.” He moved towards her slightly, half expecting her to throw the remote or a lamp or a grenade at him, but she simply watched him with her serious eyes, and he was too far away to see if there was love in them, still.

“I uh, man, Shireen, I don’t know. I fucked up, bad, and I want to fix it but I don’t know what to do. I know, I _know_ I scared you. I’m sorry. Just tell me what to do. I’m so sorry. I am  _so_  sorry. I don’t even know the words.” He kept walking towards her, until his shoes were nearly touching the bottom of the sofa.

She hadn’t moved except to lift her chin as he neared, so she could look up at him. He squatted down in front of her, eyes pleading, and came forward onto his knees.  _Say you’re sorry. Preferably on your knees,_ Sandor had said. Rickon would stay on his knees until they fused to the floor, if that’s what it took.

“Tell me what to do,” he whispered, wanting so badly to reach for her, too scared to try lest she recoil from him. She tilted her head to the side and rested her unscarred cheek on her kneecaps, gazing at him, eyes full of sorrow.  _I’ve taken the love away, and put sadness there_ , he thought, and the idea made him disgusted with himself.

“Do you think you’re too broken?” she whispered back. He stilled and his mouth ran dry. He swallowed, wished for water, wished for easy answers to such a loaded question.

“Too broken for what?” Her hair was slipping across the scars on her cheek, threatening to cover her eyes. Unable to help himself, he gingerly, cautiously lifted his hand, the pads of two fingertips ghosting up the pockmarked flesh, drawing the hair back behind her ears. She closed her eyes, but did not flinch or draw back from his touch, and for that he was relieved.

“For me,” she said, and tears sprang out of nowhere, filling her eyes and leaking sideways across the bridge of her nose and against her jean-covered knees.

“Never you, ever,” he said, standing up on his knees, an arm sliding across her back. “I’m too broken  _without_  you. The idea of a life without you in it makes my blood run cold.” Her breath hitched and she exhaled a long, silent sob, finally unlocking her arms from around her legs. She shifted, turned her body into his, clung to him; his unbuttoned jacket hung open like shutters on a window, and she buried herself into it.

“You scared me so badly,” she mumbled against the layers of t-shirts across his chest, and he closed his eyes, resting his cheek on the top of her head. “You scared me, and I hated you in that moment. I felt so mortified. So alone, and so scared. You’ve always been there, Rickon, but in that moment, you were gone. I didn’t know who that man was, or where the real you had gone.” He listened, let her words sting him and bite him and wound him, all the things he deserved. He chewed the inside of his cheek, sick with himself.

“I’m so sorry, Shireen. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, over and over again, smoothing her hair. “I’ve never… You know I would _never_. I don’t know what happened, I just… My fucking family,” he said, and there was bitter taste to the word. “I mean, I take responsibility for the wine bottle, for yelling at you. I’m sorry. I just… They get to me so easily.”

Her crying subsided and her breathing calmed down, and finally she drew back from him, lifted her head so she could see him. “But, baby, if they get to you like that, it’s almost like… It’s so easy for them to get to you, right? But if you’re too busy being angry with them, how am I supposed to get  _through_  all that, to you? Gods, look at you,” she said, brushing a thumb, feather light, beneath his left eye. It had only gotten darker, uglier, as the morning waxed on. Pain jumped up beneath her touch, but he ignored it. “You look like shit.”

“I look how I feel,” he said, voice hoarse. “I know I have a lot of shit to do. I have some stuff to fix, and I get that. We both know that. But please don’t make me do it alone.” He tried to keep the pleading from his voice, but it was nearly impossible. “I’ll do all the work, but please don’t stop being my fellow inmate.” She sniffled, chuckled at that, and shook her head, gazing down at her hands in her lap.

“I’ll never stop being your fellow inmate,” she said. He lifted her chin with the knuckle of his index finger, lowering his head to try and meet her eyes.

“Promise me?”

“I promise.”

“Look, I’m not going to be so stupid as to ask you to forgive me. I hope one day you do, but I’m not going to rush it. Just… Please know that I am really and truly sorry, Shir.”

“I do know. I do. And I do forgive you, mostly,” she said with a weak, watery smile. He kissed her forehead, pressed his brow to hers. “Just don’t ever be such a fucking idiot again, okay?”

“I promise,” he said, finding her mouth with his, and she kissed him back between sniffles, and her cheeks were wet against his, and his nose hurt with each increase in pressure and need. Fleetingly he worried it would start bleeding again, but then her arms were wound around his neck, and nothing else seemed to matter, anymore.

 

“Sansa just texted me,” Arya said over her shoulder as Gendry shuffled past her chair. “She said Rickon came over, they made out after he apologized, and they just left to go back to his place.” She paused, and another text came through. “Oh, thank gods, Shireen took her bag with her. That’s a good sign, right?”

“Come back to bed, idiot, it’s freezing and you’re in underpants and an undershirt,” Gendry said. He had only emerged from their bedroom on his day off to get a cup of coffee. No way in hell was he going to lounge around in his skivvies so Dacey, their roommate, could walk in on them.

“You told me I can’t eat cereal in bed anymore,” Arya complained. He looked back at her, and she was perched in her chair, an arm slung over the back as she twisted her body towards him. She was lounging in a see- through shirt as if there were a balmy tropical breeze outside, one foot up on the seat of the chair, offering a glimpse of her panties to match the temptation of that easily visible swell of breast, the dusky peaks of nipples. He shook his head in aroused exasperation and turned his back on her, walking to their room.

“Well then finish your bowl and get back in here or you’re going to regret it.”

“Is that a threat or a pr-”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

She came barreling into the bedroom a few minutes later, dive bombing him in bed and nearly kneeing him in the groin. He grunted and groaned in mock misery, cupping himself protectively over the covers. She tried with chilly fingers to pry his arms away, and when he finally acquiesced, instead of attacking him further, she burrowed down under the sheets and thick comforter, straddling him in their cocoon, pressing her cold chest to his.

“Fuck, you’re like an icicle,” he complained, though he wrapped bed-warmed arms around her, rubbing her shoulders with his hands to bring the blood up.

“I don’t mind it,” she said, though the way she was snuggling up to him and tangling her legs with his suggested otherwise.

“How you can eat cold cereal in January without any clothes on will always be a mystery to me,” he said, kissing her soundly.

“How you think it’s okay to drink coffee and eat pad thai in bed, but not eat cereal, will always be stupid to me,” she quipped back, nipping his lower lip with her teeth.

“I’m not the asshole who spilled an entire bowl of sugary milk in here,” he said, squeezing her hip.  “So they made up, huh?” he said after they settled themselves.  His back was propped up against a pile of pillows as he sipped his coffee and watched the small television in the corner, while Arya lay against his chest and under his arm, switching attention from the television to whatever Sansa was saying to her via text.

This was how they spent their winter days when they didn’t have to work, rarely getting up from their warm nest save for food or to go to the bathroom. Their shifts were often conflicting no matter what job Arya scrounged up, so their time together was sacred, and having a roommate often meant holing up in the bedroom was the best way for everyone to respect everyone else’s privacy.

When the sun set, she’d bring them beers or red wine, and when the delivery guy rang the bell, Gendry would pull on his flannel pajama pants and hop to the door, bringing the takeout back to bed, a roll of paper towels under his arm.

“Yeah,” she said absently. “I guess Shireen was pretty upset, but not like, mad upset. Just you know, hurt, I guess.”

“She seemed pretty pissed off last night,” he said, running his fingers through the shaggy mess of her hair. He and Arya had had plenty of blowout fights in the long span of time they’d known one another, and she’d hauled off and smacked his arm plenty of times, but never had she reared back for a slap like the one Shireen had bestowed upon Rickon.

“Well, he chucked a bottle at her,” she said, setting her phone down and gesturing for a sip of Gendry’s coffee. He handed it over, switched the channel, switched it again.

“I’m not trying to split hairs, here, but it hit the corner of the room, up by the ceiling. Shireen’s even shorter than you are. I don’t think he was aiming for her.”

“Hmmph,” she snorted. “Whatever. I just hope he can figure his shit out. He gets in over his head with his emotions and just… I don’t know. He gets lost in them.”

“I won’t argue with that, but she didn’t have to storm out like that, either. I mean, if she had just cooled off and talked to him before leaving, the whole punch out thing could have been avoided. One less red stain to clean out of that carpet, you know?”

“It’s _not_ her fault,” Arya said, giving him a glare.

“I never said it was, dude, I just said that if Rickon gets over his head, then maybe she just bails. They’ve got some shit to figure out, the two of them. It’s not just him with the issues, remember.”

“You pigs always stick together,” she said, handing him his coffee.

“Hey. I am not a pig, and neither is your brother,” he said, flicking at her ear as he sipped the last bit of lukewarm coffee she’d not drunk.

“You eat pizza in your boxers in our bed. I think _that’s_ a pig.”

“You eat plenty of pizza in here too, in your holey panties and skanky see through shirts,” Gendry said, holding the coffee cup away from her and over the floor as she pinched at his exposed nipple in protest. He yelped and laughed, set the coffee down on the nightstand and hurled himself on top of her. “Come here, you pig,” he growled, and Arya screamed in hysterics as he tickled the hell out of her.

“Help! I’m being attacked by a farm animal!” she gasped, kicking him in the shins under the covers until she was utterly overpowered. Gendry claimed her mouth with his, and she laughingly kissed him back until he pressed a more serious intent to her, and those legs that had kicked so soundly only moments before wound themselves around his hips.

“Fuck, it’s hot in here now,” she panted, arching her back as he slid that damnable undershirt off and chucked it in the corner of their bedroom. He bent to kiss her breasts, knead them with a hand as she ran her nails up his bare back.

“That’s all your fault, little lady,” he said, drawling like a cowboy, kissing along her collarbone. Arya unwrapped a leg from around him, running her foot down his thigh, hooking his leg, pulling him hard against her. 

“Don’t call me a lady,” she said, breath caught in her throat as he kissed down the plane of her belly, his fingers sweeping beneath the elastic of her underwear. She whimpered, bucked her hips, dug her nails in.

“Fine, pig,” he whispered, batting her leg away, scooting his large body beneath the covers, disappearing from view to remove her panties, to love her with his tongue. Her fingers curled in the thicket of his hair, and he set about making her moan.

 

Later they cleaned the room, stripping the bed while drinking more coffee, and Arya ran a couple loads of clothes and sheets down to the basement laundry room, bounding up the stairs on her return. Gendry had remade the bed and was in the shower, where she joined him to share in the warmth. She blow dried her hair to keep the chill away, changed into yoga pants and an old t-shirt of his that she’d claimed as hers years ago.  Arya crawled back in bed while he returned some work related phone calls, made sure his shift was covered the next day for Bran’s wedding, and got them a couple of beers.

"Dacey texted me, I guess her schedule changed, so she won't be in til real late tonight."

"It must be intense to be an EMT," Arya said, taking the beer and peeling back the covers for him. He kicked off his slippers and shimmied in, clacking his beer against hers as was their custom. "I'm perfectly content waiting tables for the time being. What’re you hungry for tonight?” she asked.

“Curry,” he said without hesitation, flicking on the television.

“Sounds good,” she said, scrolling through her phone for the number to the Indian place six blocks away. “I’ve been dying for some samosas.”

They curled in together in companionable silence, ordered some shitty movie off Netflix, and when their food came, they dug in like children, the room punctuated by the licking of fingers and contented smacking of lips.

“So, you really think she’s a bailer?” Arya asked awhile later around a mouthful of piping hot chicken korma, waving her hand in front of her mouth as she blew out the steam.

Gendry shrugged, swigged his beer, set it down. “I don’t know. It just reminded me of some of the crap you used to pull with me.”

Arya stared at him, incredulous, and set her Styrofoam container on her nightstand, chewing and swallowing her bite before turning to face him. “I _never_ bailed on us,” she argued.

He smiled, setting his container in his lap, and leaned back against the pillows and headboard. “No, you never bailed on _us,_ but you ran out on plenty of arguments. You did it a couple of times when we were traveling, too, and having your girlfriend leave you in a hostel is only a _little_ terrifying.”

Arya thought back, remembered the incidents in question, and sighed. “I was a lot younger, back then.” She’d barely turned 20, and while Gendry was older, he’d still only been 24.

“Rickon and Shireen are pretty young, too, you know. They’re just starting out. So maybe I recognize a little of you in her. A little wildness, a little unsureness. I don’t know, man. I’ve only met her the one time. It’s just a hunch.” He dug into his curry, swirling a forkful of rice in the sauce.

Arya gazed at him, and in a rare moment of tenderness, cupped his face with her hand. He glanced at her, eyebrows raised in mild surprise. She smiled at him, and he returned it, tipped his head against her hand. “I will _never_ bail on you, ever. _Ever_.”

“I know you won’t, Arry. And I will never throw a wine bottle in your direction. Unless, you know, you throw one first.”


	12. Chapter 12

January, Saturday 5:30pm

 

“But I don’t understand why,” he said, voice tight. “I don’t understand. You were going to stay for like two weeks.”

“I can’t, Rickon. It’s… It’s too new, still. Too raw. All I can see when I close my eyes is that bottle being flung towards me, the look on your face.” she murmured, sitting across the room from him on the sofa. He was still a rumpled man, fresh out of a two hour nap, legs hanging over the edge of his bed, and he was feeling bulldozed by her revelation. He scrubbed his face with his hands, quite unable to believe this was really happening.

They’d come back to his place from Sandor and Sansa’s after having breakfast there with his sister’s little family. It had seemed fine, everything back to normal, if not like slightly newer ground they were treading upon. They’d showered together, all tenderness as they washed one another’s bodies.

In retrospect, she had been more quiet than normal, but still, after the insane dinner from last night, it was to be expected.  They were both so tired. They had laid down under his covers in bed, mouths finding one another. He’d pulled her on top of him after they’d shimmied free of their clothes and she’d claimed him as her own. He could still feel the weight of her breasts against him, her knees squeezing into his sides. Rickon shivered.

“But we, you, I mean, we just had  _sex_ , Shireen. I can still  _taste_  you. And then while I’m sleeping you decide you’re going to leave? You told me you wouldn’t leave,” he added weakly.  

“Please don’t think of it like that,” she said, staring at her hands. “I wanted to, I wanted us to be together again. It’s been so long,” she whispered. “And I needed to be close to you, without any of that crap between us. Just you and me. It’s just, afterwards, you know, you fall right asleep, and I can’t do anything but just lie there, thinking about what happened.”

“Was that like, a goodbye screw, then, is that it?”

“Rickon, please,” she said, finally lifting her eyes to him. “It wasn’t that at all. It wasn’t until I was just lying beside you, while you slept so peacefully, and I was just tormented. I need some time away. I need some time to get my head around it.”

“So what, you just crept around while I was sleeping, and planned your getaway?” She had fallen asleep in one of his shirts, every man’s dream, but now she was perfect and polished. Strong Shireen, bags packed, sunglasses on her head. The mask about to slide into place again.

“It wasn’t like that, but I did change my ticket, yes.” She bit her lip and looked back down to her hands. He’d be angry, if he wasn’t so utterly devastated.

“You’re just gonna leave, like that? I mean, look, I know I have shit to take care of, and I told you, I would. But I don’t want to do it alone, Shireen.  _Please_ ,” he said, standing up, walking over the coffee table to sit on it before her. “Please don’t walk away.”

She let him take her hands in his, press a hard and desperate kiss to the delicate knolls of her knuckles. He kept his head bent over her hands, clutched in his on his knees, and she pressed a kiss of her own to his head.

“It’s not always walking away,” she said. “Maybe I’m walking towards something.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Well, maybe I’m walking towards a bit of peace and quiet,” she said, a sharpness outlining her words. “Some solitude. That was some heavy shit last night, Rickon.”

He sighed, released her hands, held his head. “I can’t believe this is happening. After all we’ve been through, I fuck up once, and now you’re leaving. You always do this to everyone else, but now you’re doing it to me. I never thought you’d do this, that you’d act like this.”

“Yeah, well, I never thought you’d come at me like you did. I guess we’ve changed a bit after all, huh?” she snapped, standing up. He sat there like a fool, on his old coffee table, and didn’t bother to lift his head. She sighed above him. “Rickon, I’ll never  _really_  be gone, okay, not from your life. I will always love you, and when you figure your shit out, I’ll be here. But if I stay here, I don’t know if you’ll ever find peace. Maybe with me, when we’re alone, but you’ll just bury yourself in that, to keep away from everything else. That’s not healthy.”

“Oh, and just abandoning ship whenever something goes wrong is healthier? I may bury myself, I may drown in my own problems, my own bullshit, but at least I’m present and accounted for. At least I own up to it. You just sever ties and spend five years flouncing around Europe, ignoring phone calls from your dad and talking shit about your mom.”

It was harsh, but it was true, and when he finally looked up at her, he saw that it had hit home. “Shir, I’m sorry, but, come on, don’t leave, let’s just, uh, let’s  _talk_  about this some more, or something.”

“We’ve both said enough, haven’t we?” At least you have,” she said, shrugging into her heaviest coat, paying too much attention to the buttons. “Don’t worry about giving me a ride, I texted a cab company about five minutes before I woke you up.”

“Fuck’s sake, Shireen, don’t leave without, don’t go, let me hold you again, gods.”

“You held me in bed, and I will still smell your skin on mine for as long as I can bear it,” she said softly, blinking rapidly. He wondered if she was crying. He wondered if he would, when she finally left. There was a sickening heaviness in his stomach, though he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it twisted and writhed in him like a serpent.

“Don’t do it,” he whispered, standing up, taking a step towards her. “Please don’t do it, Shireen.”

“I’m sorry, Rickon.  But I can’t stay. I have to go. I love you.”

She smiled sadly at him, putting on her sunglasses though the sun had already set, and opened the door, wheeling her suitcase behind her. The door shut, and Rickon stood there, bereft, mouth slightly open in disbelief, in despair

“I love you, too,” he said to a silent and cold apartment. The emptiness was palpable; his hands felt empty, as did his heart and his head, and he had no idea what to do with himself.

He had already slept two hours, but the heaviness and devastation of their conversation had worn him out, stolen the life and energy from him, and so Rickon simply turned and walked, dazed, back to his bed, pulling the covers over his head, enveloping himself in the smell of her.

She had panted into his mouth and against his ear, whimpers and moans filling the space of his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wring her from his thoughts, but it was impossible. Her hair had shrouded him in darkness, her spine a lovely course for his fingers to trail up and down, hips a comfort, a home for his hands to settle as she moved above him.

Then she had sat up with a rush, her head tipped back, and Rickon had been blessed by the full view of her, arched back with her hands braced against his thighs for support. That birdcage on her right side just visible to him as he skated hands up her flanks, pressing his left hand to the tattoo. Rickon’s hand went to his bicep now, where the cage’s brother lived, and he missed her. Gone for fifteen minutes, and he was a wreck without her.

He fell back to sleep, his dreams a torment of spilled wine and Shireen’s skin, her mouth on his, her body clenching around him, her tears, a slap so hard it brought stars to his eyes, the sound of his own voice as he raged, the door slamming, her tongue in his mouth and his hands in her hair, until it all bled out of him, and then he dreamed of nothing.

When he woke sometime later, it was to his phone going off from a text. He blinked blearily in the darkness, wondering why he felt so wrung out, and then he remembered. It was dark and cold and empty and she was gone, and he was here alone, and he was dark and cold and empty.

 He rubbed at his eyes until they stung more from the attention than they had from the pain of her leaving, and then flicked on the small lamp sitting on his desk. He blinked at that for some time before finally picking up his phone. There was no rush. He knew it wouldn’t be her; she’d still be in the air, headed for the escape of Renly’s mansion in Atlanta. He was correct. It was Pod.

  * Podrod: Hey man, I know your girl’s in town but you guys wanna go out? It’s not even as cold out tonight. Only one layer of parka required!



Rickon stared at the text in bemusement, blinking against the brightness of the screen, the glow from the lamp. He scooted up against his headboard, giving himself a good view of the room, the kitchen beyond the foot of his bed. Save for the soft, plump orb of orange light from the lamp, the place was dark. It was undisturbed. None of Shireen’s things were around, no scarf draped over the back of his desk chair, there would be no bottles of her shampoo in the shower though its smell would linger.

  * Shireen had a family thing, she had to leave. I’ll come out though. Tell me where and I’ll meet you in an hour.



Pod texted the address and his condolences, and over the next hour Rickon hauled himself out of bed, feeling like he was stitching himself back together after having all the stuffing torn out. He pulled a white thermal over his head and added a black t-shirt over it, dragged jeans up his legs, laced up his shoes.

He splashed water on his face and braced his hands against the sink, staring at his reflection in the wan light. His eyes looked dull and dead, and he figured that was a pretty accurate expression of how he felt on the inside. He flicked off the light, and the smell of her shampoo filled his nostrils as he left the little bathroom.

He made a short stop in the kitchen and filled a Solo cup with a few fingers of whiskey for the road downstairs, deciding he’d take a cab.  _I texted a cab company about five minutes before I woke you up_  rattled around as he locked the door behind him, a cigarette tucked behind an ear, and the whiskey was gone by the time he opened the door on the street level, the wall of cold air hardly registering as he tossed the plastic cup in a trash can.

Pod’s bar was flashy and pearly and clean, and the bouncer gave Rickon a look of distaste before waving him in halfheartedly after checking his ID. There was a dance floor, and the place pulsed with light and thrummed with bass, and if he had walked in there sober he’d have turned tail and fled. But he was warm from the whiskey, and he had, after all, dragged Pod to a dingy dive before, so he’d see this hand through for the sake of his friend.

He found Pod already chatting up a pretty girl at the bar, but he graciously bid the lady goodbye in deference to his friend. “Hey, man, sorry to hear about Shireen,” he said, passing a shot to Rickon, who took it without question. “I hope it wasn’t serious.”

They tapped shot glasses together and downed them in unison. Ah, more bourbon. “Yeah, I’m sorry too. I don’t think it was life threatening. Just uh, just family drama, you know how it is.”

Pod gave him a knowing look; they weren’t best buds by any means, but had hung out enough that Podrick knew his background, the shit his parents had dealt him with their own hands. Rickon shrugged, leaned over the bar, waited for the bartender to see him. He ordered them a couple of beers to pay Pod back for the shot, and when they had their drinks, they roamed from the bar to the back where booths and tables were, trying to hunt down a vacant place to sit.

Pod was an unassuming man, around six foot and in good shape, but his boyish face, simple haircut and affable smile hid the lady killer beneath the skin. He knew just what to say, even to the hottest girl in the place, and when he took them home, well. Rickon had heard from more than one girl, Myranda at Tarth Outdoors included, just how thorough a man Pod could be.

It was those charms he put forth tonight. He found them a table to share with two girls, both interested in more than just a girls night, but Rickon was a hair shy of sullen, and after Pod laid into the blonde, her friend just rolled her eyes at Rickon, slipping off her stool to check her lipstick in the bathroom and likely try to find some other guy on the walk back to the table.

Luckily for Rickon, she did, and soon after he got his third beer and shot combination, Pod and the blonde had their tongues in each other’s mouths. He sighed, tipped his shot back into his throat and went to the back patio to smoke a cigarette. It was encased in a plastic, see through tent structure with a few heat lamps scattered throughout.

The chill had kept most smokers in the bar, but there were a handful of them outside, huddled around the lamps. Rickon chose a table against the back wall of the club, where an forlorn ashtray sat alone on the small wrought iron surface. The chair wasn’t too cold against his legs, and unless Pod texted him asking his whereabouts, Rickon figured he’d camp out here a while.

Music was pumped in from the interior, and Rickon was grateful for the noise, allowing it to drown his thoughts as he lit his cigarette and sucked down his beer. He was getting a good buzz, finally, and the fuzziness coursing through him was another much needed and greatly appreciated distraction.

“You look like you didn’t heed my advice,” said a gruff voice to his side, and Rickon blinked, exhaled his drag and looked to the source of the comment. Sitting in a chair in the corner of the tented patio was Jorah, the tattoo artist Rickon had gotten his birds and telephone wires from.

“What?” Rickon said, frowning, feeling stupid.

“I told you not to fuck it up, and judging by your expression, you did.”

“Fuck up… Oh,” he said, taking another pull off his beer, following it with another drag. “Yeah, I did,” he said, sighing out the smoke. He stubbed the cigarette out, lit another one immediately. There was a small secondary bar at the patio, and so Rickon drained his beer and tossed it in the trash, ordering another before returning to his spot by the ashtray.

“How’d the tattoo heal up? I’d ask to take a look but it’s too fucking cold, even with these heaters.”

“It’s fine. It turned out great, thanks,” Rickon said, but despite his polite words, there was no warmth to his voice. It was as cold and dull as the iron chair he sat in. Jorah got up from his own seat and stood by Rickon’s table.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Nah, man, go on ahead,” Rickon said, shifting his knees under the table to give Jorah more room. They sat in silence, Jorah smoking a cigarette of his own, and watched the small group of smokers ebb and flow, come and go. College girls in opaque tights and mini dresses, with puffy coats on over the ensembles, smoking cigarettes and drinking violently-colored drinks in martini glasses; thuggish wannabes smoking their cigarettes like cowboys, cupping their entire faces as they inhaled; beatnik hipsters in skinny jeans and high tops, shivering in army coats and scarves.

They shot the shit for a while too, Jorah discussing the inner workings of being a tattoo artist and owning his own parlor, Rickon mostly just asking questions. Pod texted, apologizing but swearing this girl was heaven sent and he'd make it up to him another time. As he and Jorah talked, Rickon put as big a buffer as possible between the conversation and the still tender reality of his situation, but soon Jorah was exhausted with discussing himself, and turned the focus onto Rickon.

Rickon briefly touched on Skagos, his new job, Shireen. But the sting was too much, and finally he stood up, drained his beer, put out his cigarette. “Sorry man, but uh, I don’t think my heart’s into it, the whole club scene tonight.” He passed a hand over his eyes; the turn in conversation, however brief and aloof, had reminded him of the empty apartment awaiting him, her departure, the utter absence of her. It had been so fleeting, their time with each other. Rickon wished he had taken Friday off so they could have at least had the day together. He looked at his watch and sighed. It wasn’t even midnight, and he was barely drunk.

“Listen, I got ditched by friends here too. This obviously isn't my scene either.” Jorah stood, and zipped up his coat. “I have some beers back at my place, if you’re interested in hanging out. You’re an all right guy.”

Rickon considered it, imagined himself at home. He could see himself getting shitfaced drunk and raging in his apartment. He could practically hear glasses shattering, and  _that_  brought Friday screaming back to memory. Fuck it.

“You know what, I’ll take you up on that. At least we can smoke inside your place, right?”

Jorah laughed, and the sorrow of it was a comfort to Rickon’s own sad and broken heart. “Exactly, man.”

He was an older man, but still, Rickon had assumed he lived in the city, maybe over his parlor or close by, but Jorah had his own little house, smaller than Sansa’s, but kempt for a bachelor. There was a wall that was completely covered with record album covers, a large sectional sofa beneath it and a futon, pulled up into a couch on the other wall beside a huge entertainment system.

Jorah disappeared, presumably into the kitchen for beers, picking up a remote on the way and switching on the stereo. Rickon sat on the sectional and took off his coat, packing another pack of cigarettes against the palm of his hand. Music bubbled up from the speakers like water from a fountain, and it was mournful, bluesy stuff, and Rickon found it suited him well.

Returning with a couple of beers and a bottle of whiskey, Jorah set them down on the coffee table and sat on the opposite end of the sofa. He lit a cigarette and turned to Rickon.

“So what happened?”

Without realizing he wanted to do so, Rickon opened his mouth and the whole torrid story fell out, his words like the crumbling stones of a castle that had been torn asunder. He sat hunched over his knees as he talked and smoked, drank beer. They passed the whiskey back and forth as he went on. Finally he ended with the events that transpired before he had come out that night, and Jorah sat back with a heavy sigh of his own.

“Damn, man. That really sucks.”

“Yeah, it really does,” Rickon said, sitting back himself. Jorah reached for a box on the rungs under the coffee table’s top and opened it. Rickon took a look in and saw the obvious paraphernalia of drug use, though the type was foreign to him.

“You don’t mind, do you? It’s nothing too serious, but after heavy shit like that, shit that reminds me of my own bullshit, I kinda like to numb up.”

Rickon shrugged his shoulders, lit another cigarette. Jorah nodded and prepped his stuff, pulling out foil and a tube, and a baggie of some substance. He glanced over to Rickon, seeing his curiosity.

“Want some?”

“What is it?”

Here, Jorah chuckled, and this was a bitter laugh instead of a sorrowful one. Or perhaps both. “It’s ironic, considering I lost my dragon girl,” he said, putting a chuck of something on the foil. He lit a lighter under it, and as the stuff cooked and came to a boil, it smoked, in lazy, fleeting, elusive curls. Jorah held the tube in his mouth and followed the vapor with the other end of it, inhaling as he went. When he was finished, he tipped his head back against the couch and sighed out the smoke.

“It’s called chasing the dragon,” he said, and his voice was so blissfully far away, so much quieter and relaxed than it had been even just moments before. Rickon gazed down at the ember of his cigarette, inhaled one more drag before stubbing it out.

“What the hell,” he said, and held out his hand.


	13. Chapter 13

January, Sunday 3:10am

 

“Rickon? Godsdammit, man, wake the fuck up,” Jorah said. He’d been drifting in and out of bliss now for over an hour, but Rickon had been still for too long. He chewed the inside of cheek as he stood over the guy, undecided on further action, and then finally he slapped him on the right cheek, careful of the left side of his face due to that black eye. Rickon’s head bobbed to the side, and then back to center again.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jorah said, straddling the kid’s knees, pressing his ear to his chest. Thud.   Thud.   Thud. It was there, but it was slow. Too slow. Jorah glanced over his shoulder at the whiskey bottle; they’d drunk more than he realized. And he had the knowledge granted him from years’ worth of heroin use to know his limits, but Rickon must not have listened to his warnings. Go slow, go gentle, don’t inhale too deeply. _He probably smoked it like a cigarette_ , he thought, and Jorah was gripped with fear.

He put a finger under Rickon’s nose, but couldn’t feel any gusts of air from his nostrils. Jorah’s heart hammered in his chest. He checked the time, and swore again. He had no idea they’d been smoking this long. He pressed his head to the young man’s chest. Thud.       Thud.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he said again, pulling at the thin hair on his head. “ _Fuck_ ,” he said, and whipped out his phone, scrolling and finding the number instantly. “Dace, it’s me, and it’s bad. Real bad.” He winced, held the phone away from his ear. “Yeah, overdose. Not injection, just smoking but uh, but alcohol was involved too.” He put his finger under Rickon’s nose again, came to his senses, and put his zippo there instead, peering at it. “And um, oh gods, Dace, he’s not breathing anymore,” His cousin started shouting at him.

The ambulance screamed its arrival only minutes later, and Jorah wrenched open the door only to be nearly knocked over by Dacey, who rushed past him and immediately went to work on Rickon. She opened her kit, whipped out a prepped syringe, flicked it; her coworker, hard on her heels, went about sterilizing Rickon’s arm. She shot him with the stuff, and then sat back, hand on his wrist. Her coworker pressed a stethoscope on the kid’s chest. Jorah got a closer look at him, and his stomach flipped in anger. He _knew_ this man.

“Do you know who this _is_ , you asshole?” Dacey spat over her shoulder. Her coworker removed the stethoscope from his chest and nodded to Dacey. Jorah breathed a sigh of relief as Dace rubbed Rickon’s wrist with her thumb, an attempt at comfort, maybe.

“He’s just some kid who got a tattoo from me. He’s been having a rough time and we were hanging out, so I don’t know, I just wanted to help him not feel.”

“ _Not feel_? You idiot. You fucking idiot. This is Ned Stark’s son. Eddard Stark, our godsdamn state  _senator._  Fucking idiot. My roommate’s brother, too, come to think of it. Shit,” she said. “Text this number,” she said, finding the contact and tossing the phone to Jorah. “Tell her that her brother had a heroin overdose. He’s fine now, but tell her your address and to come pick him up. If I can monitor him and keep him stabilized with the naloxone, we can avoid a scandal and keep him out of the hospital and away from reporters. You  _fucking idiot_.”

 

The humming, black-furred pool he was immersed in started to drain, and as it left him, a dull ache in his joints bloomed, and he was instantly pissed off from being dragged away from his peace. He moved his head, and a burble of voices attacked his hearing out of nowhere. A roil of nausea hit him, and he retched.

“Get me the trash can,” snapped a woman’s voice. Shireen? Shireen, yes, she came back. He smiled, but then his upper body was hauled up and over his knees, just in time for a rush of vomit to leave him. “That’s right, buddy, get it out,” Shireen said, rubbing his back. But that wasn’t right, that hand wasn’t hers, it was too big, too rough, not soft, not Shireen. Who was this woman, and how did he get so fucking drunk? He tried to shrug her away from him, tried to tell her to fuck off, but it came out in a slur, and then he laughed at how stupid he sounded.

 _Chase the dragon,_ the thought struck him, and then he threw up again, and then he remembered, and then he hated himself. Finally he opened his eyes, sitting up, halfway on his own and halfway thanks to the dark haired woman beside him.  _Where the hell am I?_  He was confused, looking around at the crowd of people standing around him. Two of them were paramedics. Then he saw Arya and Gendry, and another round of nausea hit him.

“Fuck,” he said, and then the woman and the guy were around him, checking his vitals or whatever they were.

“How much did you smoke?” the woman said.

“I don’t fucking know,” he said, blinking blearily at her, feeling off kilter even though he was still sitting.

“Classic Rickon,” snapped Arya, and he looked up at her. She was a tiny woman, but she looked like a fierce warrior made of stone, standing there with her arms crossed over her chest, a look of pure fury contorting her pretty face into a that of an angry demon. Her admonishment subdued him, though the aches in his body made it difficult not to bite everyone’s head off. He felt like he had the flu.

“I don’t… I didn’t smoke too much, I don’t think, but then like, I think I had too much of one hit or something. I think.”

“Have you ever smoked heroin before? Done it in any form?” The male paramedic was talking, and Rickon swiveled his head to look at him. He shone a light and told Rickon to follow it with his eyes, and Rickon did so. The man clucked his tongue and gave the other paramedic a slight shake of his head. “His eyes aren’t tracking smoothly yet."

“No, this was my first time,” Rickon answered truthfully.

“Well thank the _fucking_ seven,” Arya said.

“Not the time, honey,” Gendry said, and Rickon was grateful for his presence. If it were just Arya here, no doubt Rickon would already be dead and buried.

“Well then! Congratulations, buddy, you’ve managed to overdose on heroin the first time you used it. I hope it’s the last time, considering your brief but illuminating track record,” the man said dryly, and Rickon decided he was an asshole.

“Pulse is regulated. It’s been 20 minutes, but I want him monitored for at least two more hours before I decide the opiate is out of his system. He could relapse once the naloxone wears off. Jorah, get him some water.”

Jorah slunk off into the kitchen and returned with the water. “Here, Dacey,” he said, ignoring the male paramedic’s offer to take the glass.  _Ha,_  Rickon thought.  _I knew he was a dick._

“Thanks, moron,” she muttered, and Rickon frowned.

“It’s not his fault, you know. I’m the one who did it.”

“Whatever, kid,” she said.

“Don’t call me a k-” and Rickon vomited again. When he was through, he propped his head up in his hand, gazing blankly at the others around him. _Oh yeah, this is Jorah’s house. Huh._

“Can we take him back to our place, Dace?” Gendry asked. “If your shift is ending soon…”

“My shift ended about five minutes before this prick gave me a frantic phone call,” she said, pointing to Jorah. “So yeah, I can take some of this shit home and I can monitor him there. I don’t want to hang around here any longer than I have to. Daario, do you mind dropping Rickon and me at my apartment? I want to monitor him in the ambulance on the way there, just in case.”

The man Daario nodded his approval, and before long the whole medical display was packed into their kits and Rickon found himself lying on a stretcher in the ambulance. Dacey drove, and Daario sat back with him. Arya had chosen _not_ to ride with him, and he couldn’t decide if he was relieved or hurt by that. Rickon stared at Daario, frowning, feeling a mix of drunk, sober, sick to his stomach and aching all over.

“Jorah doesn’t like you, huh,” he said, less a question, more an accusation.

“Nope,” he said, matter of factly, almost cheerfully. “And I couldn’t give a shit.”

“Why? What’d you do?”

“I didn’t _do_ anything. His ex-girlfriend chose me over him. He’s a fucking junkie for gods’ sake.”

“Oh.” Rickon liked Jorah despite his faults. He felt a messed up sort of kinship with him. “I don’t like you either.”

“Aaaand I couldn’t give a shit,” Daario said, placing two fingers on Rickon’s wrist, checking his watch as he felt for the pulse.

A few minutes later, Rickon started drowsing, and Daario flicked him to life with another injection of whatever Dacey had called it. The aches and nausea returned, and Rickon spent the remainder of the trip to Arya and Gendry’s throwing up. He tried pretending it was all the anger and hate he had inside, but the fact that he kept vomiting just reiterated to him how much there was tucked away.

 

“Wake up, fucker, we have a wedding to get ready for,” his sister’s voice wrapped itself around his head and squeezed like a boa constrictor, and the headache made it feel like his brain could pop like an overripe grape. He groaned.

“Yeah, I hope it hurts,” she snapped, kicking the sofa, and he listened as her footsteps faded away. He rolled over, pressed his face against the cushion of their faded old couch, and tried to drift back to sleep.

“Hey, Rickon,” Gendry said quietly. “Seriously, dude, if I were you I would get your ass up. She’s been up almost all night worrying over you. Dacey, too. You owe them both a fuckload, man. They kept you out of the hospital and out of the news, and off your mom and dad’s radar.”

He groaned, rolled over to his back, sat up and held his head. “Can I have some ibuprofen?”

“I already brought you some. It’s on the end table by your feet,” Gendry said, getting up from his squat by the sofa. “Drink a lot of water, today. Fuck’s sake, man, you look like hell.”

“Good. I hope there’ll be photos.”

 

Bran felt stupid, but he had butterflies in his stomach. They’d avoided most of the stupid wedding traditions and superstitions, but his mother had absolutely insisted that they not see each other before the actual ceremony, and whether he wanted to admit or not, it had actually increased his anticipation and excitement, although now, 15 minutes before he’d be seeing Jojen, those two had morphed into anxiety and now he was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He paced their parents’ bedroom suite, a room large enough for their mother’s writing desk, a fainting couch and an old sept pew butted up against the foot of their bed. Every time he tried to glance out the window into the backyard, Meera swatted him away.

“He could be out there, Bran, and you _swore,_ ”she smiled.  

Meera’s ill-timed joke Friday night about the judge had only been a half-truth; they’d not be at the courthouse on a Sunday, but there would be a judge, a longtime friend of their dad’s, Judge Luwin, who would be marrying Jojen and him in their parents’ backyard.

It was chilly, true, and he and Jojen had gotten plenty of flak for having it outside, but seeing as it was only family, it seemed silly to rent out an entire restaurant or put up one of those heated tents outside. Plus, though his future husband was a southern man, he was a northerner through and through; a winter wedding seemed ideal, and since he was moving to the swampy south in two days, Jojen had happily agreed to a cold 10 minute ceremony.

Jojen was downstairs with Gendry, Robb and Arya in Ned’s office, having a whiskey with his future father in law. Jon wasn’t able to make it but had sent a beautifully handcrafted set of nightstands to their house in New Orleans; Jojen had sent pictures, but Bran was eager to see them in person later that week.

Bran, Rickon and Meera sat upstairs drinking champagne. Sansa kept drifting in and out of the room, and finally acquiesced and had a glass of bubbly once Bryon went down for a nap. Bran kept glancing at his watch nervously; it was a wedding gift from Jojen, and he wasn’t sure if he was checking it more for the time, or because it was from Jojen.

Sansa looked gorgeous in the black frock she wore to Jon’s wedding, Meera a jewel in a deep emerald cocktail dress. Rickon also wore what he had to Jon’s, but Bran had gone all out and purchased a perfectly tailored new suit. Screw it; he only planned on getting married once, so he was going to do it in style.

“Seriously, just a sip,” Meera was saying, pressing her glass against Rickon’s hand. “If you’re hungover it’ll help, I’m positive.” Ric just grunted and gently pushed the back of his hand against her glass.

“I’m really, ugh, no thanks. Maybe later, after dinner or something.” His little brother really did look green around the gills, but given the departure of his girlfriend, and the fact that he probably tied one on last night, it didn’t seem anything out of sorts. He felt bad for him; his happiness had lasted less than 48 hours. Bran pressed a hand to Ric’s shoulder, and when he lifted his eyes, two bloodshot, one black and blue, he gave him a reassuring smile.

“Want some alka seltzer?”

“You know what, tonic. Yeah, tonic and bitters. Dad still have that?” Bran nodded, and Rickon disappeared downstairs.

“Gods, he looks roughed up,” Meera said, and Sansa sighed.

“I really thought they’d made up, but maybe she left because she was still upset. It would explain his mood. He’s even quieter and grumpier than usual.” She sipped her champagne and hummed a sigh of pleasure, shoulders slumping as she sat back in her chair. Bran grinned, and when she set her glass down and aimed her attention elsewhere in the room, he surreptitiously poured her half a glass more.

Rickon reappeared with his tonic in hand, but this time his face was considerably brighter as he gave Bran a genuine, if not weary grin, the first of the day that met his eyes. “Hey, big brother, it’s time you got married.” And when Bran stood, draining the rest of his champagne, he realized his hands were trembling.

Sansa grabbed his left, her flute in her other hand, and Rickon clapped his hand on his right shoulder. Meera brought up the rear, clasping Bran’s right hand from behind him. It was in that fashion they descended the stairs and went out to the backyard, where Jojen, his father, Judge Luwin and the rest of his family awaited him, their faces all cracked into the biggest smiles they’d ever worn.

 

Rickon watched his brother recite his vows, and when the time came, he produced for him Jojen’s wedding band from his coat pocket, as Meera slid Bran’s from her thumb. From where he stood, he could see Bran’s profile as he spoke words of love and devotion, and watched their reflection in Jojen’s eyes. For the first time in his life, Rickon was able to set his bad experiences behind him in order to enjoy the moment. He wondered if coming close to death the night before had something to do with it.

“…and by the power vested in me by the state of Illinois, I now pronounce you, Brandon Stark, and you, Jojen Reed, as married. May the seven, your family and all your friends bless you in this life and in this marriage,” Judge Luwin stated, his crinkled and serene face smiling happily.

Rickon felt a wave of goose bumps wash over him that had nothing to do with the cold afternoon air, as Bran and Jojen kissed and embraced. A pale, watery sun was sliding down the horizon, and as the newlyweds lifted their arms to hug each other, the gold of their rings flashed in the light, and Rickon decided it was a good omen.

Later there were pictures, as he had figured, and he tried his best to stand straight and smile, though he knew he well and truly looked like shit. Sandor told him to stand beside him so they’d look as fucked up as possible next to each other, and Rickon laughed at that.

As people milled about in the kitchen and TV room, he slipped out the front door for a cigarette. He sipped his tonic and smoked, shivering even in his expensive suit coat, with its thick, quality material. Rickon wasn’t alone for long. Robb slipped through the door, shutting it quietly behind him.

“You got an extra one of those?”

Rickon stared, mouth hanging open until the cigarette stuck to his lower lip nearly fell to the ground. He shut his mouth quickly, and wordlessly handed his eldest brother a cigarette. He’d never seen his brother smoke.

“Don’t give me that look, Ric Stark,” Robb said with a grin, lighting the cigarette and inhaling for so long Rickon thought his lungs would explode. Robb exhaled with a borderline sensual moan, and sighed again. “Oh gods, that’s good.” He inhaled again, nodding to himself.

“Am I hallucinating right now?” Rickon said, and Robb chuckled.

“I’m not the perfect eldest son you think I am, huh,” he said, sipping his cocktail. He looked like James bond, lowball in one hand, cigarette in the other. _Funny, no matter what happens, you always idolize your big brothers._ “I haven’t had one of these in months. The second Talisa was pregnant, it was out with the smokes, but every now and then the guys and I will hang back at the office on Friday afternoons. Crack a couple of beers I can’t have at home anymore, smoke a few cigarettes. I blame the smell on them, but I think she knows.” He gave him a sidelong glance with a smile. “Women always do, but I think she knows I’d go batshit crazy without some sort of downtime.”

“The lives they lead behind white picket fences,” Rickon said, and Robb threw back his head and laughed.

They smoked their cigarettes and shared a second, chatting a bit, but soon the chill had them putting it out halfway, stamping their feet and shivering. Rickon went to open the door, but Robb grabbed his arm. He turned around, a question for his biggest brother in his eyes.

“Hey, you know, I know there’s been some uh, some family shit that’s gone down recently,” Robb said, the smile out of his voice, his eyes serious. “I just… You know, I just want you to know that I’m sorry I’ve not really been around. Even when we were in Maine together, I don’t think I gave you enough of my time, and for that, Ric, I’m really sorry.” He gave a half smile then, giving Rickon a side hug that was returned, albeit in shocked silence. Robb moved ahead of him through the door, going into the kitchen to refill his drink, and Rickon closed the door, stood in his brother’s wake, staring after him. He waited for him, shaking his head in disbelief, and when Robb returned, he grinned openly and slung an arm over his shoulders.

They moved into the dining room, where everyone else was, and Rickon looked around nervously, but there was no sign of the struggles that had ensued on Friday night. Silver and white balloons filled the ceiling, hiding any possible remnants of wine stain, and their wavy tails of ribbon hung down in lazy, delicate curlicues. Candles were on the buffet and down the center of the table, and they feasted on lobster and small medallions of filet mignon.

With dinner, Rickon very carefully nursed a glass of champagne, finding that it did settle him somewhat. They were all crammed around the dining table, and it did not escape his attention that he was seated in a completely different position at the table than he had been Friday night. His parents had left him alone, for sake of neutrality, because it was Bran and Jojen’s night, because Robb was in town, and because Arya and Gendry had vowed not to tell them of his overdose, and Rickon would be on his best behavior.

Robb was in high spirits, having announced that Talisa was pregnant with their second child. He passed around photos of their daughter and a sonogram photo of the new baby, but all Rickon saw were blobs and orbs and maybe, maybe something that looked like a legume. He was seated by Sandor, and as he passed him the pictures, Sandor leaned in.

“Arya told me,” he said bluntly, and Rickon flinched. “I’ll not say anything to your parents, but I hope you realize that you could very well have died. You could be dead in the morgue now, instead of drinking Pierre Jouet in a fancy suit.”

Rickon bowed his head, humbled, and nodded silently. He took another sip of champagne, and it tasted sour. He set it down and drank thirstily from his water glass. Sandor pretended to look at the pictures, and then passed them to his left, down to Ned.

“I hope you’ve given some more thought to what I told you Friday night,” Sandor continued. “There’s someone I want you to meet, and I think you understand now that this is the moment where you make a fucking change, and you either save your own life or you throw it away.  You’ll have none of us to love you if you’re dead in your grave, but we’ll all still be here if you decide to live. Shireen, too.”

 _Strong Shireen,_ he thought, and he remembered her words, that she’d come back when he figured his shit out. He only hoped she’d figure hers out too. Because he wanted her, and he needed her. To have her back meant he had to live, so he nodded to Sandor.

“All right. I’ll choose to live. Just tell me who to meet and I’ll go.”

“Oh, I’m going with you, little brother,” Sandor said with a grin, and Rickon looked up in surprise. It was the first time Sandor had said any such sort of familial endearment. “I’d not miss Elder Brother kicking your ass for all the world.”

 

Jon scraped the mud off his boots, a not insignificant amount considering the workshop was only down the driveway. It had rained nonstop the past week and a half. He was grateful that uncle Benjen chose to do the sales part at their small boutique, allowing  Jon to hang back and focus on his work at home, hone his carpentry skills. But it was still vexing that every night after work, he found himself completely soaked after the short walk from converted carriage house to back door. The sawdust and wood shavings that managed to float up into his hair became plastered to it on the brief walk.

After scraping his soles, he quickly entered their mud room, sitting down on the veneered wooden bench to unlace his rubber topped boots and kick them onto the mat by the door. He sighed, arched his back and listened for the cracks and pops. Ghost, his white shepherd mutt, came into the mudroom, tail wagging lazily, nudging his head against Jon’s damp knees, before turning round and heading back inside the house. 

“Mama’s boy,” he chuckled.

Ygritte had already lit a fire, and sat on the ground in front of it, wearing a pair of wooly gray leggings and one of his old flannel shirts. Ghost was sprawled out, back to hers as he soaked up the heat from her body and from the fire, already comfortable again after giving Jon his brief greeting.  She was sifting through some printouts, and lifted her head when he walked in, giving him a smile that lit his heart the way the fire was lighting the red of her hair. _Kissed by fire,_ he thought to himself with a grin.

“Hey, you,” he said.

“Hey, you,” she echoed. “Your hot toddy is by the stove,” she called out as he headed into the bathroom to clean up. He stuck his head under the faucet, rinsed off the back of his neck and his forearms with hot water, splashed some on his face, toweled off. The last time he’d truly felt dry had been back in Illinois. But still, he had his work here, his relationship with Benjen and his life with Ygritte. How a woman as hot blooded as she could come from such a gray and drizzly world, he’d never know, but he’d never question it, either.

Jon changed into dry Adidas pants and a long sleeved t-shirt before grabbing his still-steaming drink and joining his wife and dog in front of the fire. Ygritte’s half-full drink was on the hearth by her bare toes, which wriggled lazily before the heat. He sat on the hearth beside her mug, grabbing her foot with his still-numb fingers, and she shrieked from the jolt of cold, jerking her foot and waking Ghost. The 120lb dog heaved to his feet with a deep-bellied grumble, ambled over to the couch and climbed on, curling up with a world weary sigh.

“Horrible man,” his wife smiled, and they leaned forward together as he kissed her. “Here, I printed these out for you. Robb emailed them from his dad’s house.” They were on photo paper and in pretty good quality; his cousin's hobby had improved.

“You’d hardly know the man was a landscaper,” Jon said with a smile. There were Bran and Jojen, their rings flashing in the sunlight as they embraced. “Gods, I miss the sun,” he said, and Ygritte kicked him playfully.

“Look at poor Rickon,” she said, scooting closer and pointing to a picture in Jon's hands.  “I wonder what he got himself into.”

Jon flipped through until he found the close up of Rickon with Sandor. He frowned, bringing the photo closer to his face, and studied his youngest cousin. He was smiling, no teeth, and his forehead was smooth and lacking in any furrowed brow or angry frown. But the smile never reached his eyes, and the purple bruise under his left did nothing to cheer the expression on his young but troubled face.

“Whatever it was, it looks like he’s still in it, doesn’t it?”

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, the Elder Brother portion is full of information given to me by my husband, who is a teacher like Elder Brother is. :)

February, Tuesday 1:15pm

 

To: “Shireen Baratheon” <scarface22 @ gmail>

 Subject: what the hell do I know

 Hey inmate,

 I’m sorry I haven’t contacted you in a while, and here is where you say sorry for not writing me, either. I wanted to call, but at the same time, I didn’t. I don’t know. I don’t know where we stand. I’m not sure what to do. You’re the bossy one, you tell me.

 The weekend of the all the shit hitting all the fans, Sandor told me to snap the fuck out of it and told me there was some dude he wants me to meet. I thought it was some therapist, but then he mentioned ass kicking? So I don’t know about that, either. Guess there’s a lot I don’t know about. Anyways, tonight I’m finally going to meet this guy, Elder Brother. I won’t admit it to anyone else, but I do still know that I can admit this sort of shit to you: I’m kind of scared.

 I hope everything’s okay with you. Hope Renly and Loras are good. Hope Atlanta sucks and that you miss Chicago and think I’m less of a prick than you did a month ago.

 I attached some pics from the wedding. Sansa got drunk off of a glass of champagne and fell asleep right after dinner so that’s why there aren’t any more of her after the toast. Arya wanted to draw on her face, but, and I think you’ll be proud of me here, I told her not to. She was pretty pissed at me, but then again, I guess she had some pretty good reasons I won’t bother you with right now.

 Anyways. Gods, I hope you answer this, Shir. Miss you like crazy, and believe me, I know crazy. I don’t know if I’m supposed to keep apologizing, but if I am, then I’m sorry.

 Love you,

 Ric

 

He wanted to write that he dreamed often of her, and that it had taken him two weeks to wash the pillow case upon which her head had rested for just that one night. He wanted to write that he couldn’t smell her shampoo in his bathroom anymore, that its absence hurt him more than he could say with words. He wanted to tell her how deeply it had cut him, to watch her literally walk away from him, to shut a door between them in more ways than one.

 He sat back in his chair and stared at his email, reread it three times before finally clicking send. He shoveled the remainder of his meatball sub into his mouth, wiped his hands on a napkin and threw away the remnants of lunch, sweeping crumbs off his desk into his trashcan. Rickon sighed, and closed out of his personal email, pulling up Outlook to check on any IT requests that had come in on his lunch break.

 It had been a month since that weekend, and while Sandor’s insistence that he meet with Elder Brother had seemed urgent, after Rickon had agreed to meet him, Sandor had made him wait. It took two weeks of his asking about it before he’d realized it probably was some sort of test of patience, or temper, or something, and after that, he’d wisely cooled down and backed off. And now, he’d finally have his meeting after work.

 The month had both flown and crawled by; Bran had left the week following the wedding, and the upheaval was exhausting, dizzying, so much so that when the U-Haul finally left, towing the old Volvo behind it, there was palpable relief mingled with Rickon’s sadness.

 He’d had to eat a lot of crow, when it came to Arya, but he’d devoted a weekend to helping them all rearrange the furniture when they’d gotten a new couch, and another weekend helping Arya at her restaurant when they were short staffed. He’d never washed so many dishes, but afterwards, she’d grudgingly bought beers for them and they’d sat at the marble topped bar in the rear of the restaurant. For Arya, that was as good as any acceptance of an apology and Rickon had been relieved, though he was exhausted and his hands were beet red from the steam and hot water.

 Trying to channel Sansa’s sensitivity, he had sent Dacey flowers at the hospital by way of both apology and thank you (how many times would he have that mingled feeling?) with a note stating as much. Arya told him she’d thrown them away, but later Gendry had explained that Arya had lied, and they were actually in Dacey’s room.

 Jorah had asked Dacey for Rickon’s number, and she’d refused, but did pass along the message that he was extremely sorry for what had happened, and had decided to try and get some help at NA. But, Dacey had warned, as Rickon lifted one end of the new sofa for the fifth time, no one should hold their breath waiting for that declaration to come to fruition.

 He’d kept silent, but he rooted for Jorah on the inside. He’d felt immensely powerful, all-encompassing pleasure before slipping into unconsciousness that night; if Jorah had been at the drug for a good deal of time, then he had a hard road ahead of him. Rickon hoped he could stick it through, maybe get his girl back.

 Rickon hoped he’d get _his_ girl back, too.

 He wasn’t sure if he was excited or terrified when the clock read 5:00pm, but he changed into his workout clothes, donned his coat and headed out of the office just the same. Sandor wanted him at his house as quickly after work as possible; they were expected at Elder Brother’s by 6pm.

 Sandor was waiting for him in the driveway, leaning against his black Jeep and talking on the phone despite the cold. It had snowed again last week, and the air bit at noses and cheeks, fingertips that weren’t covered in gloves, but Sandor was unmoved, unaffected. Rickon parked next to him and got out, coming around to the passenger side.

 “I don’t think it’s a big deal, Ned, but I can send someone down there to check it out. No, I’m sure Howland has people, he’s no fool, but still. The wrongs that family did were against yours, not Reed’s.” Sandor glanced at him, and Rickon frowned, not liking the nature of this conversation. He mouthed “Who?” to Sandor, but the big man just waved him off. “Look, Rickon’s here and we’re going to be late. Uh huh. Uh huh, yep. Sure, I’ll call you later.”

 “I see you didn’t chicken out,” Sandor said, pocketing his phone, and Rickon ignored him, getting into after he did. They drove in silence; he knew all too well that he’d get no answer to any sort of question he had about this. The house they pulled up to was as quaint as could be, but if it was some sort of professional space, it’d be impossible to tell. There was no plaque stating it was Dr. Elder Brother, PhD in psychology or anything, so Rickon was no more enlightened here than he had been a month ago. _An ass-kicking,_ he thought and he swallowed hard.

 “Dude, can’t you just say wh-”

 “Nope.”

 Rickon sighed and trudged up the steps after Sandor, who opened the door without knocking, without a key; he just walked right in. He followed him, and his mouth dropped when he walked in.

 The façade of the house was as perfect as any little family home could be; cheerful red brick, what Rickon assumed would be grass under all the snow, a shade tree on either side of the walkway. A tire swing would look perfect under one of them. But inside, it was a space transformed by what Rickon now understood to be the needs of some sort of martial arts school.

 The foyer’s walls between the rooms to the left of the staircase had been removed, and now the space yawned open in front of him. There had been a fireplace in the former living room, but the mantle had been removed, and inside the small fireplace were a dozen candles, lit and guttering slightly as three men moved within the room.

 “Come on, stop playing around with each other. Stop wasting my time. I want to see some _devotion_ , now,” one man said, circling the other two.

 It was a strange dance that he had a hard time following; two of the guys were sparring, that much he knew, and their arms were a blur as they parried back and forth, back and forth. Rickon jumped slightly as one man faltered in the movements and the other took advantage. Suddenly he spun, had the other man’s right arm hooked and drawn tightly back and pinned against his own spine. The aggressor had simply to pull up on the arm and the defeated sank to his knees, panting heavily, head bowed.

 “Enough,” said the third man, and Rickon focused on him, knowing instantly that this was Elder Brother. He was pacing around the place like a tiger in his bare feet, loose black pants grazing the tops of his feet with each purposeful step. His hair was salt and pepper, shaggy for an older man, and he had a mustache and goatee. Rickon briefly thought of the movie _Tombstone_ , but knew instantly that those cowboys would be no match for this man.

 The guy standing caught his breath, hands on his hips, as the other got to his feet, back facing Rickon, and he cradled his right arm against his belly. Rickon swallowed, and hoped Sandor didn’t sense his nervousness; going to town on a punching bag was one thing, but this shit took skills he didn’t even dream of possessing. The man who had been brought to his knees was older and buffer than he was.

 “Sandor, good to see you,” Elder Brother said. The victor of the spar lifted his eyes, and grinned, swaggering over with the confidence of an overgrown puppy, but also something a little more intense, a little darker. “Sandor, my man,” he said, clapping a hand on Sandor’s shoulder. The three of them were all nearly of the same build, though Sandor had them all beat in height. Rickon, feeling like a scrawny, puny kid, shoved his hands in his pockets and tried not to stare at each of them in turn.

 “Elder Brother, Bronn, good to see you. Jaime,” he said with a tinge of distaste. The other man, still holding his right hand to his belly, turned and Rickon’s eyes widened. Despite his hair, plastered to his brow and temples with sweat, he was so good looking that Rickon felt a flare of instant irritation himself. No wonder Sandor’s dislike came through so obviously.

 “This is Rickon Stark, Sansa’s youngest brother, the one I talked about.” Rickon side-eyed him with a frown, but a quick glance to Bronn revealed he didn’t seem to know anything about him; Jaime, though, at the mention of Sansa’s name, flicked his eyes to Rickon with a slight frown. He held out his hand, shaking Elder Brother’s, then Bronn’s, before extending it to the man Jaime.

 To his surprise, his attractive face twisted into a sarcastic smile, and when he extended his right arm, Rickon understood, to his embarrassment. The man’s forearm tapered to the wrist and then nothing more. He couldn’t see how old the amputation was, as it was wrapped in an Ace bandage, but something about the man’s behavior suggested it was newer rather than old.

 “Shake it if you want, Richard,” Jaime said with a slight southern drawl, arching an eyebrow with the challenge. He briefly considered thumping it.

 “It’s _Rickon_ ,” he corrected, narrowing his eyes beneath a frown. Jaime shrugged.

 “I’m beginning to see why you’re here, Rickon,” said Elder Brother. “Bronn, Jaime, go cool down in the kitchen and get some water, and I’ll see you for your individual classes later this week.” The shift in his tone, conversational one moment, authoritative the next, was impressive. “Sandor, Rickon, come on, let’s stretch out.”

 

Sandor had to admit, this was far more fun than he’d ever thought, watching Rickon struggle, biting his tongue throughout every correction Elder Brother gave him. After a good ten minutes of stretching in ways Rickon had likely never thought possible before, the man’s hamstrings would be roaring sore by morning.

 And then there had been the horse stance. Elder Brother had even gotten Rickon into a flat horse, such a deep, wide squat that the thighs were parallel to the floor, and made the man hold it for a full minute before Rickon, muscles quivering so hard Sandor could see it from five feet away, fell onto his ass.

 “No talking,” Elder Brother had said when Rickon had let loose a string of expletives out of frustration. Sandor had just bitten back a grin, bowing his head as he maintained his flat horse, hands in fists at his hips, curled fingers up, elbows back, legs strong and still though the muscles had been aching for a while now.

 “You get angry, you waste your energy, you waste your chi. You control _yourself_ , control your emotions instead of letting them control _you_. Don’t waste chi; channel it to something bigger than getting mad that you fell down.” Rickon had set his jaw, and got back into his wobbly horse stance, the sweat beading and dripping off his brow as if he were melting.

 And then there had been the five star conditioning; Sandor knew he was a big man, bound with more muscles as a teen than Rickon was now, so he did feel a small amount of sympathy for the kid as they beat their forearms against one another’s, on either side, bone to bone, fists down first, then fists raised, bones against bones, and then on to the other arm.

 It was sadly mismatched. Sandor had been doing this for years, and no longer felt the pain, his arms were so well conditioned. But Rickon winced with every smack, the pain written like a short story on his face though he struggled to keep it inside. Sandor knew his arms would be purple the next day.

 They’d ended with punching. Elder Brother used pearls, large balls made of newspaper and duct tape, held by one man and punched by another. Sandor was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to help when Elder Brother landed such a solid punch to the pearl in Rickon’s already tired arms that the exhausted guy staggered back and fell onto his ass for the second time that evening.

 They cooled down in the kitchen, pounding down water, Rickon turning his forearms this way and that, marveling in silence over the blossoms of bruises that were already present. Elder Brother got a jar of murky brown liquid, opened it and let the pungent aroma fill the small kitchen. Rickon’s eyes widened.

 “It’s called Dit Da Jow and it’ll help with the bruising,” he said. Rickon extended his arms in front of him. Elder Brother poured a small amount in his palm, spread it over Rickon’s arms, offered some to Sandor, who shook his head no, and then he washed his hands in the sink.

 Sandor checked his phone for texts, and found one from Ned. He frowned and quickly read it.

  *  The Freys moved down there last year. More than likely they don't know of  Bran moving down there, but they focused an awful lot on us when we were in Tennessee. I want to make sure my son is okay. I don’t like that they're in Louisiana. Who can you send?



 He typed his reply and closed out quickly, returning his attention to his water, glancing at Elder Brother and then to Rickon.

 “You’ll have two more private lessons, without Sandor this time, before joining us for tech. You saw the tail end of a tech earlier with Bronn and Jaime. The more the merrier,” Elder Brother said with a smile. Rickon looked like he was going be sick.

 “Are you- Am I gonna fight those guys like that?”

 “Not for a long time. You’re here for different reasons than they are. They’re in the business where knowing those skills are required, and Jaime is here to gain back his grace and lethality after losing his hand.”

 Sandor glanced to Rickon, and could see he was curious about Lannister’s missing hand, but apparently being admonished once for speaking out of turn had curbed the appetite to try it again.

 “Do you know why you’re here? Why Sandor asked me to take you on?”

 Both Sandor and Elder Brother studied him with interest, and Rickon, to his credit, actually took some time to think about it. He drank the rest of his water and sighed.

 “I fucked up. I’ve been fucking up since I was a kid. I’m not learning anything from it, and I’m just getting angrier. I, uh, I almost killed myself, and I still don’t even know if it was an accident or not. So, I need some help.” Sandor’s eyebrows shot up; he’d not known this, Rickon had never expressed any such sentiment. He sneaked a glance to Elder Brother, but the Kung fu teacher betrayed so surprise, no shock, no disgust. He simply nodded.

 “Then I’ll see you next week.”

  

Rickon lowered himself into the piping hot water and groaned in a mixture of pleasure and grief. He’d not taken a bath since he was eight years old, but tonight the idea of standing long enough in the shower to wash his hair and body was too much to handle. He scooted down to submerge his hair and then resurfaced, resting his head against the tub. The bones in his arms throbbed, his bicep muscles protested lifting even the smallest things, his legs shook each time he hauled himself to his feet after sitting for even a few minutes.

 The whole experience had been agony, and he’d wanted to die in embarrassment as he floundered and failed, staggered and fell, all while Sandor was strong as stone and just as still in his stances. He moved lightly and well for such a big guy, and Rickon hoped he’d get to that stage one day. He thought of Bronn and the other one handed dude, Jaime, and how it had looked like a dance. He wanted to be good enough to kick that Jaime guy’s ass.

 Sinking down and wetting his hair again, he wearily scrubbed his scalp with shampoo, and soaped himself as best he could without standing to get to his torso, figuring the soapy water would be good enough. As the water drained, he pep talked himself into standing up and climbing out of the tub, doing so as slowly as an old man and groaning like one, too.

 He dressed in warm pajamas, ate leftovers hovering over the sink, brushed his teeth and shut off the lights. The idea of sitting down at the computer was an ugly, tiresome one, so he sank gratefully into bed, scooting down under the covers, leaning over with a guttural sound to grab his laptop off the desk by his bed. A strange tingling pleasure flickered to life inside him when he saw that Shireen had replied to him. _It only took her a day, too_ , he thought happily. The nature of her email could be anything, though, and so he hesitated a moment, calming himself down in case it was just a long “fuck you” letter. He grimaced and opened her email.

  

Scarface22@gmail

Subject: You know plenty, honey

 

Hey, you.

 Thank you for writing. And I am sorry I haven’t written either. I may be bossy, but I don’t know much either, I guess. All I know is how to take care of me, and I only seem to be able to do that when I’m all by myself. I guess we’re both fucked up.

 Renly and Loras are fine, but they were surprised to see me so soon. I think they’re surprised I’m hanging around as long as I have. It’s weird, but all the time I spent in Europe, I just kept thinking, you know, I’m discovering myself, I’m exploring the world, I’m living life how everyone else wants to. But maybe you were right. Maybe I was just running away. I don’t know how to do anything else. I haven’t had a _home_ since I was 12. Then it was Skagos, then it was hotels, hostels, apartments rented for a month at a time. I’m here in Atlanta, and it’s nice, but it’s not home either. I don’t know what to do. I think it’s time I found a job or something. Did something with some sort of permanence. But I don’t know where.

 Anyways. I hope your time with Elder Brother was cool. Let me know what kind of thing it was. I have a hard time imagining scary old Sandor sitting around meditating or talking about his feelings, but weirder things have happened. Me leaving you, for one.

 I’m sorry, Ric. I’m sorry, I am. After taking time to think about it, I realize I should have stayed. You should have calmed down, but I should have stayed. We’re both idiots. Maybe when I settle somewhere we can have another visit.

 The pictures are sweet. Is that Robb in them? He looks a lot more laid back than I envisioned him. Bran and Jojen are adorable. YOU BETTER NOT HAVE FUCKED MEERA.

 You’re crazy, I’m crazy. It’s a crazy world.

 Love you too,

 Shir. 

 

Rickon sighed, relief flooding him, washing away his fear, but leaving a layer of sadness like silt in his heart. He closed the laptop and set it back on his desk, rubbing his face with his hands, staring at the ceiling in the dark. He wondered if they’d ever come together again, all trust and openness and want and need, like they had as teenagers up in Maine. He hoped that that bond hadn’t been all it was, that they could find a way to just be together, and have that be enough to chase away his anger, chase away her fear.

 Finally, he grabbed his phone, pulled up her contact, and tapped out a message.

  *  Hey. Got your email. I love you, and I will always be your home, so long as you’re ready to come back. I didn’t fuck anybody. I only want you. Goodnight, canary.



 He placed the phone by his pillow so he’d be sure to hear the alarm after such an exhausting workout, and soon drifted to sleep. An hour later, his phone chimed by his ear, and he groggily checked it.

  *  I should have known. Home is always where the heart is, and mine is with you. Sleep well, crow.



 Rickon fell back to sleep with a smile on his face.


	15. Chapter 15

March

 

“Come on, Rickon, this is supposed to be fun,” Elder Brother said, soft of voice though without a smile. The room was silent save for Rickon’s heavy breathing, as he paused in their sparring, wiping the blood from his face. He had received the blow to the nose through fault of his own, but still he went down to one knee under the guise of catching his breath, though in truth it was a fruitless attempt to hide his anger at being struck. He lifted his head, glared at Elder Brother from beneath his brows, and then stood. He took a deep breath, and got back into horse stance, hands lifted, ready again. Elder Brother nodded, and dipped into a lower, stronger horse. Rickon groaned inwardly, and tried to relax his breathing.

 

“Warrior’s maid, man, you look like you got into a wicked fight,” Pod said good naturedly the next day, leaning against the door frame to Rickon’s office. “You find some nasty bar you’re not telling me about?”

He felt like a sack of bruises, rocks and broken bones, but there was another feeling, one he’d rarely had in life, and it was the foundation of satisfaction. So he gave Pod a grin and simply shrugged. It was a new sensation, after all, and he wanted to keep it to himself for the time being.

He’d told Shireen via text that it was kung fu, but hadn’t really gone into detail. There was something wild and raw about it that appealed to his very nature, but also something orchestrated and fine there, sophistication and grace, very intangible but graspable things to aspire to. It made him straighten his spine when he walked, as if that extra inch in height would help him wrap his fingers around the mysteries that hung like fruit, just out of reach, in every lesson Elder Brother taught him.  

 

April

 

He wore head gear, but still, each _thwap_ of Sandor’s strikes made his head bob back, over and over, his blocks useless against the other man’s skilled attack. He was finally getting better at blocking, but the successful ones were few and far between. After a few more seconds, Elder Brother called it off, and Rickon and Sandor stepped back, dipping their heads once to each other out of respect, before stepping back again to catch their breath. Sandor too wore head gear, with three dogs painted on the front, though Rickon had yet to hit it once. _When I buy my own fucking helmet, there’s gonna be a wolf on it._

“Do you need a break, Rickon?” Elder Brother paused, bending at the waist to inspect a flower in his garden bed.

“Nope.” He steadied his breath, tried to focus on where he wanted his energy to flow, and walked back towards Sandor, dipping down into flat horse. Sandor’s chuckle was a low and dark thing, coming from inside the head gear, but Rickon welcomed it, even after his opponent dipped low into a formidable stance of his own.

After class, Rickon passed by Jaime, on his way out for a solo lesson with Elder Brother, as he was going to the kitchen to cool down. Lannister gave him a grunt by way of hello, and Rickon jerked his head in his direction, looking at Sandor.

“So, if I’m here to work on my anger and other issues, why is that guy still such an asshole?” As he said that, Rickon wondered if he had been an asshole, too, before.

Sandor shrugged, finishing his glass of water. “We’re all here for different things. Elder Brother told you why Lannister’s here, he needs to reach his old skill level before the accident. He wasn’t so cranky before, but he was always sort of a smug, confident type. Police force. Desk jockey now. I don’t think the downgrade has made him very happy. That and the whole no hand thing.” He shrugged again.

“Yeah, but, I can’t imagine learning this stuff, taking all these lessons and not like, taking it to heart,” Rickon said, turning to pour himself another glass of water from the sink. He turned, catching Sandor’s expression of raised eyebrows, a downturned grin. “What?”

“Well, well, well. The pup’s been paying attention, eh?”

Rickon dipped his head to hide a smile.

 

May, Tuesday evening, 6:50pm

 

For the first time since starting lessons, Rickon was able to strike the rolled up magazine more often than not. Elder Brother was _good_ at this exercise. He would hold the magazine in front of the student and invite them to hit it, moving it out of the way right before contact was made. It taught the student quickness of attack as well as how to anticipate an attacker’s movements.

When _he_ held the magazine, Elder Brother hit it every time. “Your intent is written there in your face, Rickon. Hide that better, focus your energy, and keep that magazine away from me.”

He was proud of himself, but the remainder of the class washed it away with sweat.

Afterwards, he lingered in the backyard instead of heading into the kitchen, and Elder Brother, busy already with watering his plants, glanced over his shoulder. “Did you need something, Rickon?”

“Sort of. I’ve been thinking of visiting my brother, Bran, down in New Orleans, but that would mean I’d miss at least four lessons. I wanted to check with you, first.”

Elder Brother pulled the hose towards a large tree in the corner of the yard, dropped it at the roots and turned back to Rickon with a smile on his face. “You’re asking my permission to go on a vacation?”

“Well, no, but… Yes.” Rickon wiped a forearm across his brow, but the former was too slick with sweat to do much good to the latter. He wiped both arms across the stomach of his t-shirt, and then pulled the damp thing over his head to be rid of it. “Yeah, I am.” He lifted his eyes to his instructor.

Elder Brother gave him an enigmatic smile. “The fact that you asked me is proof that missing two weeks’ worth of lessons won’t do you any harm,” and he turned back to the tree, leaving Rickon in a wake of silence.

 

Bran found Jojen in the backyard, sprawled out on the ground, a beer nestled in the spongy, soft grass near his hip. He was a hazy stretch of cargo shorts and t-shirt in the dusky air, and the occasional firefly lit the darker corners of the yard, the inky shade of shrubs and trees. An arm was thrown over his eyes, and there were no sounds in the yard save the soft trickle of water burbling up from a tilted old wine barrel and over its edge into the fish pond. He smiled; Jojen was a nature boy through and through, eloquent redneck, a well-read, philosophy-teaching hick and proud of it.

“Hey,” he said, and though he’d been soft of voice, the sound of it was like a record scratch to the peaceful surroundings. He got a beer of his own out of the old cooler on the back porch and twisted the cap off, pocketing it before going to sit down in the grass by his husband. Jojen smiled, moving his arm though his eyes stayed closed.

“Well hey there,” he replied.

“I just got off the phone with a very excited Rickon. He’s apparently gotten himself approved for some paid time off coming up, and would like to come visit us. A birthday gift to himself.”

“Cool,” said Jojen, opening his eyes at last, propping himself up on an elbow. He drank from his beer, the beads of condensation sliding into themselves, creating little rivulets that trailed down the length of the bottle. “When does he think he’ll come?”

“His birthday’s next month but I told him June’ll be miserable down here. I suggested either right around now or to wait til October. He chose now.”

Jojen chuckled. “Sounds like him.”

“You’re all right with that?”

“I am. From what Sandor tells Sansa, he’s really mellowed out. I’m not worried about any bullshit.”

“He doesn’t know the Freys live here now, though,” Bran said. When Howland had told him and Jojen, an image of his baby brother covered in blood and bruises rose up in his mind’s eye, and it had nauseated him.

“I assume not telling him is off the table?”

“I will never take part in keeping shit from him, not anymore,” Bran said vehemently. Jojen nodded his agreement.

“Then we tell him, and hope he doesn’t go postal.”

“Sandor swears he’s a different guy, these days. All from kung fu of all things.”

“Hey, whatever it takes, man.”

“He wants to invite Shireen, too,” Bran said, tipping his beer into his mouth, an eye on Jojen. His husband had been infuriated with his little brother after the ill-fated dinner, and it had taken him weeks to cool off from it.

Jojen laughed again. “Why not? If we can get Rickon laid for his birthday, we won’t have to get him a present.”

 

“So what are you wearing right now?” He asked. It was Wednesday afternoon, and he was sitting in a park near his office, enjoying the sunshine and breezes on his lunch break, the bench cool on his back and the arm he had stretched out across its back. A passerby glanced at him, shocked at his cheek. Rickon shrugged, and the other guy chuckled, shaking his head as he walked down the path.

“That’s your hello to me after two weeks of no calls?” Shireen said, a playful bite to the tone of her voice. It sent a grin spreading like honey on his mouth, slow and sweet.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Fine,” she said, huffing a sigh as if sitting down on something. He pretended she was sitting on her bed, knees parted slightly. “Nothing. No, wait. Chanel No. 5 and a smile.”

“I’m serious. You’re not taking me seriously. What. Are. You wearing.”

“Um,” she said, and the phone moved, muffled sounds spilling into his ear. He pretended it was a sigh, from her mouth to his earlobe. “Just, you know, a dress.  A black, floral print sundress. It’s hot down here.”

“Does it have those little straps? The spaghetti ones? Do they slip off your shoulders?”

“ _Rickon,_ ” she laughed. “What’s gotten into you? You gonna try to have phone sex with me now?”

“If I did, I’d get arrested. I’m in a park.”

“Ooh, now _I’m_ turned on. So what’s up? To what do I owe the pleasure, O Busy One Who Never Calls?”

“Hey, I’ve been busy. Well, busy and worn out. I fall asleep at like 9pm these days.” It was no lie. He had upped his lessons to twice a week with Elder Brother, and joined in on Thursday night tech classes, which were basically an hour of HIIT with 30 minutes of sparring. “Anyways, I’m going to visit in Bran in two weeks and I want you to join me. I won’t take no for an answer.”

And he wouldn’t; she’d not found a job she liked, so she went through a temp agency, and could decline any job that came in. She was still at her uncle’s and needed no job to pay rent. She had no excuses, and he was prepared to tell her that. He pretended he could tell her that in person, her wrists pinned in one of his hands above her head on the mattress. Rickon squirmed in his seat; he needed to calm down before he looked like a pervert with an erection out in public.

“Oh yeah? Down in New Orleans?”

“Yeah. I’ll get a connecting flight in Atlanta and meet you there. We do pretty good in airports, if memory recalls. Then we can fly there together. Join the mile high club.” _Stop it, Rickon,_ he said to himself with gritted teeth.

“Very tempting,” she said, sounding amused. There was a purr to her voice, and he was borderline regretting making the call out in public, when she set his heart to soaring. “Of course I will. We’ll book our flights online together.”

“Awesome. I got two weeks off. If you want I can stay a night in Atlanta, meet your fabulous uncle and his fabulous lover.” She laughed.

“Sure. That could be fun.”

“I need you to cut my hair, too. I always shave it crooked.”

“Mm-hmm. You say you’re in a park?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I need _you_ to make love to me. And then I want you to fuck me against a wall, rough and hard,” she said, letting out a soft, teasing moan, and Rickon’s eyes rolled back in his head before he closed them. “I’ll wrap my legs around you and rake my nails down your back. And I want you to pull my hair and bite my neck as you-”

“ _Godsdammit_ ,” he hissed, propping his right ankle on his left knee, trying to give himself room for camouflage, and her ringing peel of laughter did nothing to kill his spike of arousal. “You torture me.”

“I’ll send you bail money, sweetie. Call me later.”

 

Her phone call, that little moan of hers, stayed with him the rest of the day, making work nearly impossible, and by the time he got home, he had to take matters into his own hands, literally. Hot water rained down on his shoulders in the shower as he closed his eyes and thought of Shireen in a black sundress with flowers on it, her legs hooked around him, those little straps slipping off her shoulders.

His head tipped back as he came, and he imagined the drumming of water on his head to be her fingers, sliding into his hair and pulling it. He slept deeply that night, but his dreams were full of her; long, glossy hair, a mouth he’d kill men for, just to taste, the swirl of a black sundress around the muscles of her smooth-skinned calves, and he woke up as worked up as he had been before.

 

“So, I hear you're going to visit Bran next week,” Sansa said, setting a plate of pork tenderloin and roasted vegetables in front of Rickon before ruffling his wild hair with affection. Sandor set down his plate and hers as well, and she smiled gratefully at him as they sat down in unison at their kitchen table.

“Word travels fast in the Stark family,” he said with a good humored roll of his eyes. She breathed a sigh of relief; Sandor was right, he really had calmed down. The idea that the family was discussing him would have irritated him instantly, just a few months earlier. She had no idea how fighting each other and doing kung fu achieved it, but she knew that Sandor had relied heavily on Elder Brother and his teachings years ago, and the fact that he still went weekly was a testament to its success and effects.

“You know it,” she said, sipping her wine. She glanced at Bryon who was sitting up on his own on a blanket on the floor by the table. He gurgled happily at her and she stuck her tongue out at him, which made him bubble with laughter.

“Let me guess, everyone’s worried I’ll get shitfaced drunk and set a cop car on fire.”

“That does sort of sound like fun,” Sandor said around a mouthful of food. Sansa eyed him, and he grinned at her.

“No, it’s not that at all. But for the record, please don’t get drunk and set a cop car on fire,” she said dryly. “It’s more like, well, Sandor, you tell him.” He gave her a glare, to which she shrugged innocently, and chased his food with a swallow of beer. He cleared his throat and sat back in his chair, wiping his hands on his napkin.

“Howland Reed called your father a few months ago with some news that may or may not affect you. It doesn’t _have_ anything to do with you, but your mother and father are concerned that you will _make_ it about you.”

Rickon raised his eyebrows, sitting back in his own chair, a mirror image of Sandor. _They have no idea how similar they are,_ Sansa thought, spearing a piece of zucchini with her fork. _These two wild men with their tempers and their ferocious love._ She smiled to herself, gave her son another assessing look.

“Ok, so what was this phone call about?” His brow was furrowed, not in anger but in thought and confusion. He sipped his beer. Sansa glanced to Sandor.

“Walder Frey and his family have moved to New Orleans. They did so a while ago, before Bran even moved down there, so we believe it’s purely coincidental. Frey’s political aspirations have tanked in Tennessee; Ned looked into it, and he thinks that’s why they left Nashville. Bronn is currently down in New Orleans, and he reports that it indeed seems to be professional; there’s no scheme of revenge, or anything, for either your mother beating him out back in the day or for your attack on his son.”

He and Sansa looked to Rickon, who was still frowning at Sandor as he took in this information.

“Walder Jr hasn’t like, harassed Bran, has he?”

“Not in the slightest. Bran and Jojen both work at Tulane, you know,” Sansa said, piping up. Sandor laid his hand on her thigh, giving it a squeeze before sitting forward and returning to his food. “There are definitely no Freys circulating in the world of academia. They haven’t seen hide nor hair of any of them.”

Rickon nodded, lowering his eyes to his plate as he cut into his pork, bringing a forkful of it to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, wiped his mouth with his napkin after he swallowed, and sat back again.

“I’m not going to lie to you guys and say I’m perfectly okay with this. I have absolutely no regrets about what I did to that prick nine years ago, and if he tried to fuck with me on my vaction I would find another bottle and do it all over again, in a heartbeat. But if he’s leaving my family, and me, alone, then Walder fucking Frey can go in peace. Pardon my French, Sansa.”

She laughed. “I’ve been known to speak French myself from time to time,” she said. “I’m glad you’re okay with this.”

“I’m just glad you told me,” he said, swigging his beer. “Or didn’t lie about it or something.”

“I don’t lie,” Sandor said. “I’ll punch you in the face, mate, but I won’t lie to you.” They grinned at each other, and Sansa rolled her eyes.

“Men,” she said, and they both laughed, clinking their beers in camaraderie and draining them together. They spent the rest of the meal talking, and Rickon and Sandor immersed themselves in kung fu topics as Sansa took the dishes to the table. Bryon was in Sandor’s arms when she returned, and her heart swelled with love so acutely she felt it would burst.

“So you really don’t regret it, at all, Ric?” She said after Sandor went to change their son’s diaper. “The bottle, the fight, the whole thing?”

“Not in the slightest. That bastard messed with me and my family. I don’t just stand by and let that crap happen. Besides,” he said, with a smile. “I’d never have met Shireen if I hadn’t.”


	16. Chapter 16

May, Sunday 4:45pm

 

Shireen could hardly stand still, waiting for Rickon’s flight to land. She’d gotten herself a latte to kill time, as she’d arrived early, but that had just sent her nerves to buzzing even louder than before. She dragged her nails through her hair, about to pull it up into a ponytail before she stopped herself.  _He loves my hair down, leave it down._  He’d sent her three dirty text messages over the past week, and one of them had described how he’d grab a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back so he could bite her throat. Shireen shivered and twisted a lock of hair in her fingers, thoughts lost for the moment.

It had been a sad stretch of months between the day she walked out of his apartment and now, a lost time full of dead ends and false starts, starting with their reunion. Leaving him had been one of the worst mistakes she’d ever made, and she was chomping at the bit to be with him again, to try and pave over that grievous decision with better, more fulfilling intentions. She’d been scared, but she’d fallen back into old habits, and instead of forging ahead  _with_ him, she’d abandoned him. She’d left the man who had been left behind his entire life. She’d not make that mistake again.

Their failed connection had rankled, and had weakened her attempts at creating a life for herself in Atlanta. Jobs accepted and jobs given up. Apartment searches ending with ennui and a listless shrug. Nothing looked like home. Nothing felt like a career. So she’d idled, laying out in the sun by her uncle’s pool as he and Loras likely watched her from inside, concerned yet unsure how to approach.

The hollowed out space in her heart, reserved for him as it always had been since she was 14 years old, since she told the cute boy with the messy hair to go fuck himself, ached and twisted with hunger pains for him; it made her realize she’d not be satisfied in this life without Rickon Stark. Life wouldn’t really start up for her, until she had him back. Shireen bit her lip, glancing at the clock beside the Flights Arrived board. It would start as soon as that fucking plane landed.

She was about to get another coffee when she spied him in the crowd, a dark smudge of hair, black t-shirt, slouched jeans in this airport of light and brightness. A messenger bag was slung across his body, snaring the shirt, hitching it up slightly at his hip, exposing a small stretch of skin above his jeans. He was wearing sunglasses, and she laughed though it was a blatant mockery of her. As he came closer, though, the laughter died on her tongue and her jaw dropped slightly in disbelief at the changes in him.

He was a tall man, had been since he was a teenager, but he seemed even larger now. His shoulders were broader, and Shireen realized with a breathless little sigh that he’d put on muscle; a lot of it. Gone was the skinny scrappy boy, and here, walking towards her with a steady stride of confidence, was a man. She touched her hair, her brain buzzing, thoughts dropping away like leaves on an autumn tree, and then he was there.

Rickon bent his knees when he stopped in front of her, wrapping his arms around her waist and hoisting her easily, up and into his arms, a kiss ready for her on his lips. Shameless, uncaring towards the others’ sensibilities around them, Shireen slid her arms around his neck, her legs around his torso, hooking her ankles together at his back, the stiletto of her heel snagging the strap of his bag. Neither of them cared.

He squeezed her ass once, possessively, before clasping his hands beneath her, holding her up as they kissed, lost in a mutual fever for each other. Someone made a nasty comment, but he only grunted, deep in his chest, the unconcerned rumble of a beast who did as he pleased. She grinned, pushing her fingers up the back of his neck and into his hair, making a fist. He inhaled deeply, his lungs expanding, chest pressing against hers, and the sigh he released against her mouth perfectly summed up the relief she felt to be in his arms again. She let his hair go, removed his sunglasses, wrapped her arms around his neck again as they broke the kiss, heads bent together in giddy conspiracy.

“Don’t you ever leave me again,” he said, looking directly into her eyes from only centimeters away. She shook her head minutely, kissed him again, licking his lower lip. She pressed her forehead back to his.

“Never.”

She hugged him tight to her, resting her head on his shoulder, and he kissed her cheek, hefted her in his arms to lift her up higher.  Rickon carried her to the baggage claim, both of them ignoring the strange looks they received for such a flagrant and unashamed display of love and want. He whispered to her how he loved her, and how he was going to fuck her, and she breathed him in, pressing her scarred cheek to his perfect one as she kissed his earlobe, and told him how she’d never let him go, how he’d never be rid of her now.

“Good.”

He eventually let her down when he had to retrieve his bag from the carousel, and she was lightheaded and dizzy and barely able to keep herself upright. She stood there, like an idiot, watching him grab his bag. He moved differently, he looked differently, he kissed her differently. Before, Rickon had been like the scattering of stars in the sky, brilliant light but divided and unfocused.  _And_   _now he’s the sun,_  she thought, biting her lip, grinning like a fool.  _A bright steady light, and he’s blinding me, but I’ll not look away._ He turned, bag in hand, and came towards her, eyes burning for her. She felt like his prey, and she loved it.

They walked through the parking garage hand in hand, she asking him about his flight, he asking her about Renly and Loras, who, she assured him with a grin, were  _very_  excited to meet the young man who had made Shireen so distant and lost in thought. It was light and easy, but when she unlocked her car from the device on her key chain, and Rickon saw the lights blink their hello as it chirruped and unlocked, he dropped his bag, pulled the other one off his body and dumped them both by the rear tire. He lifted her swiftly, setting her down on the trunk and pushing her knees apart to step into the space between them.

He grabbed her hips and wrenched her hard towards him, and she hummed as he kissed her hard, his hands in her hair, tugging her head back to kiss her throat as he’d promised in his text. She wrapped her legs around him again, dragging him in to her, and she felt tears sting the corners of her eyes as she kissed him, barely containing the desire to pull off his shirt, to take his clothes off and take him right there in the muggy parking lot. She gasped, and a sob shook her.

“Hey. Hey, now, don’t cry,” he said, panting, pulling back as he stared at her in concerned wonder. He brushed the pads of his thumbs across her cheekbones, swiping away the tears that fell now, freely, though she tried in vain to blink them away.

“I’m sorry, I’m just…” She laughed mid-cry at herself, gazing at him. “I’m just so  _sorry_. I hate that I left you. I’m so sorry that I left you.” He brushed her hair back from her face, kissed her, hugged her tight to him. 

“I’m sorry too. But I’m here now. We’re together, and that will  _never_  change, never. I’m done with it. I’m over it, all these miles between us. You put an ocean between us once, and I will never let that happen again. If I have to take you with me back to Chicago then I’ll do it.”

“Okay,” she said, wiping her face with the back of her hand, laughing through her tears when he grinned like a little boy at her acceptance. “I’ll go wherever, I don’t care. I don’t care. I’m not even living, here, not really. I’m just filling the days between getting up and going to bed. I feel like a ghost, and Renly gives me these  _looks_ , like I’m a wounded kitten or something.”

“I almost died, when you left,” he whispered, and she frowned, wondering if that was a truth or just an expression of pain. “I almost died, I almost killed myself. I completely lost myself. I don’t care if I sound fucked up or like, codependent, but I can’t live without you. I don’t want to, I  _never_  wanted to, but I realized that I can’t, either. Don’t ever leave me again,” he repeated, stroking her hair, staring at her with such honesty, such open and guileless blue eyes. She felt her soul expand, her heart break and reform with more strength than she ever knew she had. Shireen smiled and cupped his face in her small hands.

“Never, Rickon. Never.”

 

He did get to fuck her against the wall of her bedroom, the exact way she’d described while taunting him, and since her uncle and his boyfriend weren’t home, she got to be as loud as she wanted. He heard his name on her lips and it coaxed groans out of his mouth to hear it, hot and heavy with her gasping breath. Late afternoon sun streamed into the room, painting her body with its golden glow, illuminating her for his pleasure. She clawed at the wall as much as she clawed at his back, digging in deeper with each thrust, and she  _moaned_ , so deliciously, so breathlessly, that he came far sooner than he’d wanted.

Rickon pressed her to the wall, catching his breath against the slender dip where her neck met her shoulder, slick with sweat despite his not even lasting as long as he’d have liked. He licked it up, pressed his teeth to her sun-touched skin, and her head tipped back with a light thud as it hit the wall. Shireen sighed, then laughed, and he laughed with her until it, combined with the quivering limbs that came after such an intense climax, made him too weak to hold her up any more.

They fell into her bed and into sleep almost instantly, her head on his chest and a leg hitched up over him.  He was ensconced in her, in her sheets, her smell, her hair and her skin, and he felt drunk with its headiness, with the realization that he was here with her, in her lair and her clutches, that he’d never have to let her go again. Sleep tugged on him and he went willingly, safe now with her, home at last, now that he was with her again.

 

“Ric. Rickon baby, wake up.” The words were a lovely and soft tangle of her voice, rich with sleepiness and husky from faded orgasm. He smiled through his sleep, pulling her closer to him, erasing the distance that had happened during their slumber. A feminine chuckle curled into his ear, and he shuddered delightfully from its teasing delicacy. Finally he opened his eyes, turned his head towards her. She was on her side, still naked, and  _at last_  he had his lazy moment with her, with him, together in bed, all a tangle and nowhere to be.

“Hi,” she said with a smile. He laughed, stretched his arms above their heads, and rolled her onto her back, propping himself above her.

“’Oh, hi, there,’ she says to me, after a few months apart, a riotous sex session against the wall, after waking me up from a perfectly wonderful nap. ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘Hi, honey, want to go watch television?’” She laughed, then squealed as his tickled her, trying with halfhearted swats to his shoulder to make him move.

“We could, you know,” she said, shoving him off her at last to sit up. He stared at her breasts, still tired but half willing to drag her back to him, to have her ride him, but she was still talking, and he had to tear his eyes away, force himself to look at her and listen. “We could watch television all night long and it wouldn’t be a waste of precious time together. Because I’m going wherever you go now,” she said happily.

“Ah, so none of it is precious anymore, huh?” He grinned, and she threw the sheet off his body and slapped his flank.

“You know what I mean, loser.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said, and watched her as she got up, that tattoo of hers the only thing on her perfect, naked body. He was smug and content with the knowledge that this would be a regular thing, that he’d get to watch her get dressed for the rest of his life, but that didn’t stop him from enjoying every single second of it now.

 

He showered and dressed, and they walked downstairs together where Patsy Cline was playing amidst the sounds of someone cooking and prepping food. Someone was singing along, and another person was laughing.

“They’re going to eat you alive,” she whispered, and he jested back with a loud, exaggerated groan as she tugged him through the hall and back towards the kitchen.  He knew from photos that it was her uncle Renly at the stove, a glass of wine in one hand and a spatula in the other; Loras was sitting at the kitchen island, surfing the web on a laptop from which the country music was playing. Both men looked up at their entrance.

“There they are!”

“Lovebirds!”

“Young love!”

“Sex starved 20-somethings!”

“Idiots,” Shireen said with a laugh, clasping his hand and pulling him into the room. It was a gorgeous kitchen, and though he wasn’t much of a cook, unlike Sansa, he could appreciate its glory; dark wood cabinets and slate gray granite counters, chrome appliances, plenty of space with its open floor plan and vaulted ceilings.

Renly set his wine and utensil down, walking towards them with arms outstretched. “Come here you two. Look at how cute they are, Lor, I think I’m going to be sick to my stomach.” He pulled both Rickon and Shireen in for a hug, and Shireen mumbled something against his chest. He drew back, staring at her incredulously.

“I would  _never_ embarrass my niece, you silly girl. Now Loras, go get my baby pictures, I bet Rickon has been dying to see them since he arrived.”

Loras poured them each a glass of wine and cracked open another bottle as Rickon sat down next to his seat and Shireen went about helping Renly chop parsley. He was sautéing mushrooms in balsamic vinegar with shallots and parsley, and stated that they’d be having steaks as soon as Loras got off his ass and turned on the grill on the back porch.

“I’ll do it,” Rickon said, and Loras and Renly glanced at each other with matching grins.

“You can keep him, Shireen, he’s a  _helper,_ ” Loras said, settling back in front of the laptop.

“Unlike someone I know,” Renly said. “Shireen, show your beau where the grill is. Try not to have any more loud sex out there, we have neighbors to consider.” Shireen gaped at him, and he shrugged. “I don’t think you realized we had come home in the middle of your… little tryst. Oh no, don’t worry,” he said to Rickon, who blushed furiously and hung his head in embarrassment, Shireen squeaking out a hasty attempt at an explanation. “You apparently make my niece  _very_  happy, and considering how fucking  _mopey_  she’s been, I’m eternally grateful.”

They sat outside for dinner, laughing and chatting amiably and easily. Renly was a frenetic source of energy, fetching salt and pepper, then another bottle of wine, then the laptop for music, until Loras, who stretched out languorously in his chair, finally told him to stop or he’d be thrown in the pool. Rickon could see how the two balanced each other out, and he was reminded of Arya and Gendry, how mellow the man was for the wildness of his sister. It made him smile.

“So, you meet and fall in love in reform school,” Loras said, smiling as he looked from Shireen to Rickon and back again. “That’s a good story.”

“Story?” Rickon asked with a smile, sipping his wine. It was humid outside, and hotter than his northern blood was used to, but there was an occasional breeze that gusted against the back of his neck, Shireen’s bare feet were in his lap, and he was happy.

“Yeah, the story of how you meet your true love.”

“I was dating Loras’s sister in California when I caught him coming out of their bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist,” Renly said, laughing when Loras leaned over and whacked him on the knee. “Let’s just say a lot of conflicting feelings made sense once I saw him.”

“Poor Margaery. She was convinced you were coming over so often because you were in love with her.”

“I’ll never forget her face when she caught us making out in your garage.”

They laughed together, and Shireen rolled her eyes and gave Rickon a smile. After dinner, the sun slid past the horizon, washing the air in a blue-gray softness. She and Rickon cleared the table and Renly and Loras feigned boredom with talking, leaving them poolside to go watch television “like the old farts we are,” over which Shireen and Rickon shared a private laugh. They switched the backyard lights on, strands upon strands of fairy lights wound in the trees and draped along the wooden fence. Rickon was impressed.

“Fuck Chicago, maybe we’ll just live here forever,” he said when Shireen came back with a couple of beers. She chuckled.

“It’d be warmer, for sure.”

“So where’s this sundress of yours?” he asked as they sat by the pool steps, feet submerged in the cool water. She was in a pair of shorts and a tank top, and while he liked seeing her legs, he had had visions of her in this phantom dress. She snorted, flicked a bit of water at him.

“I’ll wear it tomorrow,” she said, and he hummed his approval. “Although, you know, I’m not sure I’m all that happy in these shorts right now.” He raised his eyebrows, enjoying her comment as much as the slyness with which she said it.  Shireen stood up and out of the water, glancing towards the house before unbuttoning her shorts and shimmying out of them. “Come to think of it, I sort of hate this shirt, too,” and off it went, over her head, leaving her in mismatched black panties and a pale pink bra.

She strode into the pool without hesitation, the lights under the water setting her skin to glow an unearthly alabaster as she sunk beneath the water, head, hair and all, kicking away from him underwater, a sea nymph, some bewitching creature. Rickon was nobody's fool; he hastily stood up and followed suit, chucking his jeans and shirt onto the small pile of her clothes. 

Clad in only his boxers, he waited until she surfaced at the far end of the pool, grinning at him and treading water, and then leaped in after her, tucking his legs up and wrapping his arms around his knees in a cannon ball. He heard her shriek wildly before hitting the surface, and he opened his eyes underwater to find her. She was waiting for him, and when he resurfaced before her, she wound her slippery arms around him, laughing into his mouth as he kissed her.

 

“Seriously, I think they’re going to make me sick,” Renly said, gazing down out of their bedroom window at his niece and her boyfriend –  _Soul mate,_ he corrected himself – as they swam and chased each other through the water. The television on the wall opposite their bed was on, but he could still hear their laughter and Shireen’s screams whenever Rickon caught her. He smiled.

“Were we that sweet?” Loras asked, coming up behind him, resting his chin on Renly’s shoulder. “Damn, he’s cut.”

“Avert your eyes, you fickle brute,” Renly tutted, sighing as he lifted his finger from the blinds, letting them snap back to place. He turned, kissed Loras on the cheek, and went back to bed, grabbing the remote as he did so.

“And to answer your question,” he added as Loras joined him. “We were sweeter. Had a hard road, but I guess those two nuts did too. We weren’t as young and cute, though. At least I wasn’t.”

“You’ll always be young and cute to me,” Loras said, kissing him before settling in beside him, and it took Renly a few seconds to realize he’d stolen back the remote control.


	17. Chapter 17

May, Monday, 11:30am

 

 Rickon couldn’t stop looking over at her, couldn’t quite wrap his head around the normalcy of it all, the cliché of a girlfriend falling asleep on a road trip, and he, the boyfriend, behind the wheel. She’d fallen asleep with her fingers twined in his, and he’d not part from them as she slept, not for all the money in the world. So he kept his left hand at 12 o’clock on the steering wheel and his right on the center console between them, and the small, peaceful smile never left his face.

 They’d decided on driving before he’d left for Atlanta, due to flight costs and the inconvenience of not having a car to drive once down in New Orleans. They had left a few hours ago that morning, throwing their suitcases in the trunk of Shireen’s car, Renly and Loras embracing both of them warmly, though Shireen and Renly’s hug lingered even after Rickon had gotten behind the wheel.

 He felt like a man with the world in the palm of his hand, like he could keep driving this road forever with no destination in mind. He felt free, and he felt more like himself than he had in a long, long while. There was a comforting, pleasant heat cocooned in the space between their palms, hidden from the cool air pumping through the vents, and if he could, he would curl up there.

 They’d stayed up late into the night, long after their impromptu swim session, her dark hair drying into waves that made him think of mermaids, stretched out on loungers by the pool that glowed in the darkness, a rectangle of ghostly sea green light. She had told him how lost she’d felt, homeless even with a roof over her head, and he’d told her that he’d felt like that since he was 13 years old.

 “I don’t know if we’ll ever feel at home, no matter where we are,” she’d said, stretched on her back in her panties and bra, brazen in her own skin as she’d always been. He’d reached over, trailed a hand down her tattooed ribs.

 “As long as we’re together, I figure that’s as good as it could ever get,” he’d said, and she’d smiled, satisfied with its simplicity, and had looked back up to the night sky and the smatter of stars.

 She’d demanded a display of what he’d learned from Elder Brother, and so he went through the five storms he’d been taught, which were long series of moves that left him standing there, panting heavily in a happy sweat, after he’d done them. Elder Brother had taught him humility, but there was a fierce little bloom of pride in his heart to see her staring in open wonder at him as he caught his breath.

 “So that’s where all your pretty new muscles have come from,” she’d said with a grin, and he’d laughed, half embarrassed, half over the moon to know that she’d noticed.

 He glanced at her now, lost in thought, taking in her hair, now glossy and straight through the magic of women’s beauty tricks and secrets, and he hoped he’d see the starlit mermaid again. She was curled up against the window, wearing her black flowery sundress, and it had both delighted and agonized him to note that the straps did indeed slide of her shoulders. Had he not been holding her hand, he’d have pushed the nearest strap up with a forefinger, only to pull it down again.

 Shireen had been asleep for only about twenty minutes, and in that time he’d been consumed with thoughts of the future the entire time, but didn’t really have any answers. They could live in his studio, but it was a small space, even for lovers. He had a year-long lease, he had his job, his car, a little life that he’d been putting together lately. Shireen said she’d come back with him, and he knew she was serious; he felt a ridiculous, fervent responsibility to take care of her, and he supposed this must be what grown men worry about. He wanted to offer her more than a few hundred square feet of space. The life he’d created had been small, but her presence in it now made it feel enormous and full of possibility.

 “Oh my gods, did I just fall asleep?” she asked in a mumble, lifting her head off the window, giving his hand a squeeze. He looked to her.

 “Yeah, but not for long.” he said with a smile. He squeezed back, and they pulled apart; his hand had fallen asleep, but he regretted nothing. She ran her fingers through her hair, rooted around for her bottle of water, gave him a smile.

 They pulled over for lunch and coffee and so Rickon could unfold his tall body after so long a stretch in the car. She sat on the hood of her car as he stretched out beside the fast food joint, her legs crossed, and popped French fries in her mouth while she watched him. He took a sip of her soda when he was through, and when he leaned in with his mouth open she stuck a fry in it and physically closed his jaw for him, and he grinned as they both got back into the car.

 Shireen made him play 20 Questions and beat him at it all three times. She texted stupid photos of him to his sisters along with a crooked and slightly blurry photo of the both of them, she called Renly, relaying all the dirty jokes her uncle could remember. She kissed the side of his face until he batted her away for fear of losing control of the car. They stopped again for a cigarette break for him, sitting together on the trunk, her head on his shoulder as she stole drags, her fingers sliding against his lips to pluck the cigarette from his mouth. When the cigarette was finished she supplied him with kisses, and he would have happily stayed there, pulled over on a frontage road, until the end of his days.

 The trip lasted nearly eight hours but it flew by for Rickon, and she said as much when they finally got off the interstate in the heart of downtown New Orleans, Shireen behind the wheel as Rickon texted Bran for directions to Magazine Street. His brother and his husband were on the porch of their house on an old couch they’d suspended with thick chains, and it swung back and forth slightly, a good old fashioned redneck porch swing.

 “There they are,” Bran said warmly, with his easy smile, getting up and trotting down the porch steps towards them as they got out of the car. He hugged Shireen and kissed her cheek before turning to Rickon and hugging him. “What’s new, brother?”

 “I’m happy,” Rickon said. “That’s new.” He grinned and Bran clapped his shoulder, beaming at him.

 

 After a couple of showers to wash off the road, and a wonderful dinner of oysters on the half shell and huge bowls of crawfish etouffee served with crusty bread, Shireen sat on the back porch with Jojen as Bran and Rickon walked the perimeter of the yard, using the last bit of light before sunset so Bran could point out all the little touches to the yard they’d done that spring.

 “This has certainly been a more successful evening than the last time I was around Rickon,” Jojen said, glancing to her with a smile, sipping his beer. She smiled, but her eyes must have been guarded. He frowned at her. “I didn’t mean to joke about it, I’m sorry.”

 “No, no, don’t worry about it. I’m just protective of him, that’s all. He acted badly, but so did everyone else, and I don’t think they feel as guilty as he does, even though they should. No offense,” she added quickly. She liked Jojen but they’d only met once before, and it had been tainted by the disastrous dinner. She didn’t know him well.

 To her relief, he smiled. “None taken, trust me. I get it. For what it’s worth, I’ve always supported Bran being open and frank with his brother. Trust me. It’s easy to see that he needs that.”

 “He needs that, and he needs unwavering loyalty. I’m prepared to give him that now. I wasn’t, for a while there, wasn’t sure I could. But I know now that I can, and I’m happy to do it.”

 “He’s a lucky man to have you.”

 “I’m a lucky woman.”

 "So what are y’all’s plans after this trip? Are you going back to Atlanta?”

 “Eventually, to get my stuff, but,” here she smiled, almost shyly, studying the beer bottle in her hand. She bit her lip and picked at the label, glanced at Jojen. “I can’t live without him. I’m going to go wherever he does.”

 “Good,” Jojen said with a nod, turning to watch Rickon block Bran’s sorry attempt at a martial arts attack. Rickon whacked his hand away with an air of boredom, and both brothers laughed. “Believe me, I know that long distance relationships aren’t easy. Bran coming back down here was the best thing in the world, like my heart had come back to me.” Jojen’s eyes were on Bran, a smile ghosting around the corners of his mouth. Shireen smiled.

 “I think I know the feeling,” she said, eyes meeting Rickon’s as the Starks came ambling up the steps to join their counterparts.

 “What feeling?” He asked, squatting down in front of her on the narrow porch, resting his back against the railing.

 “You, baby,” was all she said, and Rickon simply nodded, full of knowing.

 

 Bran and Jojen’s guest room was on the second floor, down the hall from their own bedroom, and Shireen smiled when they pushed open the door, seeing that one of their hosts had brought up their suitcases already. A ceiling fan circled overhead, cooling her skin as she crossed the room to the window.

 Bran and Jojen were still in the backyard, she could see. They were apparently immune to the humidity, sprawled out in the grass by their adorable fish pond, Bran’s head resting on Jojen’s stomach. It made her smile to see them, made her smile to recall that all of his siblings seemed to be settling into the comfort and familiarity of love. It made her proud and happy that she was making that a reality for Rickon, as well. She let the curtain move back into place and pulled the blinds shut to keep out the sun come morning.

 Her hair was pulled up into a knot on top of her head to keep it from sticking with sweat to her neck, and it was there, the nape of her neck, where Rickon pressed his kiss, her hands still on the blinds’ cord. She let out a breath and tipped her head as he lightly, lightly coasted a fingertip down each of her shoulders, dragging the straps of her dress down with the motion. A shiver rolled down her spine, his fingers following through with the gesture all the way down to her wrists and back up again, switching to slide up her belly towards her breasts.

 “Rickon,” she said, voice fading into nothingness as he kneaded her breasts through her dress, stepping backwards towards the bed and pulling her with him. She went willingly, all thoughts of protesting dissipating into the ether. She turned when she felt him sit on the edge of the bed, bent her head to kiss his mouth, his head upturned to offer himself up. His hands roamed her body, leaving her breasts to smooth the dress down her back towards her ass, which he gripped hard before running his palms down her thighs and back up, under the dress this time. She gasped when he pushed her underwear to the side and reached for her, and she throbbed richly as his thumb worked her over. She propped a knee on the mattress by his thighs as he kissed her, as he used his clever fingers to make her pant like an animal against his mouth.

 She broke the kiss, unable to concentrate, coming utterly undone against his hand, biting back the moans. So instead he kissed her collarbone and breasts through her dress until she came at last, bucking against his hand. Rickon dragged her panties down and to the floor, where she stepped out of them, and slowly eased them backwards until he was lying on his back and she was straddling him, his erection hard beneath her where she still throbbed. She sat back, relishing the feel of that promise, and took down her hair.

 “Come love me,” he said, voice lethally low, lifting a hand to brush his fingers through her hair. “Come here and love me.” She pulled off his shirt and leaned over him, reaching down to unbutton and unzip his pants, and he lifted his hips as they moved together to push them down and off. He stilled her hands when she made to take off her dress, biting his lip as he grinned and shook his head. She laughed softly, shaking her head at him in return.

 “I love you,” she breathed as she settled down on top of him, lowering her body over his to kiss him. He fisted the dress at her hips and pressed himself up inside her, gasping and breathing out a moan. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” she said, over and over and over again. He couldn’t take it any longer, and pulled the dress over her head, tossing it behind him. She pressed herself to him, his body warm and strong, his heart a hammer beneath her breasts as it beat out just how much he loved _her_.

 Rickon flipped her onto her back and drove into her, his hair falling in his eyes. Shireen wrapped her legs around him, hitching them as high as she could to get him as close to her as possible. She pulled him down, kissed his shoulder and bit it, and her eyes fell on the little yellow canary tattooed on his bicep. She smiled through the building ecstasy and closed her eyes as he grunted,  squeezed him with her legs as he cried out, coming in a rush and with a shudder, and she was rewarded with her name on his tongue, _Shireen_.

  

Blessedly the window was covered with both wooden blinds and curtains, for the sun wasn’t able to wake them until late into the next morning. He woke, again, blissfully again, with her beside him, and it was starting to feel real, that they’d not be parted anymore. She was running her fingers through his hair, and he felt like a cat being roused from sleep. Rickon opened his eyes.

 “There you are, sleepy,” she said, propped up on her pillow, reading on her Kindle, holding it with her left hand as she combed through his hair with her right. He smiled, stretched in languor and moved to rest his head on her stomach. She was in an old t-shirt that he remembered from their days at Skagos, and beneath the sheet he knew she’d have on those little cotton shorts. He slid an arm around her and burrowed against her body.

 “I think I like vacations,” he murmured against the soft, worn fabric of her shirt, settling in. She chuckled, and set the Kindle down on the nightstand, driving the fingers of her other hand into his hair.

 “I definitely like them with you,” she said, scooting down, and he adjusted so she could lie back down.

 “I like _everything_ with you,” he replied, and grinned to see the happy smile on her face when he looked up at her.

 They lounged in bed, talking, the occasional sound of Bran or Jojen rattling around the house coming up through the old floorboards. Rickon discussed wanting to visit a cemetery and Shireen countered that she wanted to sit in the St Louis Cathedral and eat a beignet in the square.

 “And you need to do something about your hair. It’s getting so long on the sides.”

 “ _You_ need to do something about my hair. I keep asking you. I always get the hairline crooked.”

 So they hauled themselves up and got dressed, and Rickon told her she should become a hairdresser, painting her a funny little picture of running a salon out of his studio apartment, and that he’d be her receptionist.

 “Like anyone would take beauty advice from me,” she said offhandedly, gazing into the standup mirror in the corner of the room to adjust her dress, a dark blue one this time, and undid two of the buttons at the top. He came up behind her, glaring at her through the mirror, his hands resting on her shoulders.

 “If this is about your face, Shir, then you better stop right there. Nobody talks about my girlfriend that way.” She rolled her eyes and shrugged.

 “It is what it is, Rickon, it would be stupid to ignore it or pretend it’s not there.”

 “Yes, it is what it is. It’s a big mess of scars on your face, and I don’t give a fuck about them. They’re who you are. I love you, so I love them. That’s it. They’ve been there since I’ve known you, and to be honest, when I was 13 I thought they were bad ass.”

 “And now?” She frowned at him in the mirror. He shrugged.

 “Now I think they’re beautiful,” he said, speaking truthfully as he bent down to plant a kiss square in the center of the scars.

 “Idiot,” she whispered through a smile.

 “Asshole,” he said into her ear. “Now come on, come shave my head.”

 

 Bran and Jojen both taught at the university but were off for the summer, and so were lazing in the living room when Shireen and Rickon finally decended the stairs. They set them up with a bit of breakfast, swearing they needed to save room for the po’boys they’d be going out for soon.

 Later, when Rickon asked, they supplied some clippers and a razor. Shireen shaved the sides of his head outside on the back porch to keep the hair from getting everywhere, and Rickon was reminded of when she had first done it at Skagos. The feeling of her hands on his head and in his hair made him close his eyes with a serene smile, and when he opened them a few minutes later, Bran was laughing and pointing at him through the window. Rickon flipped him off with a grin.

 That afternoon, Rickon still rubbing a hand over the sides of his scalp, they ate shrimp po’boys at a little hole in the wall restaurant, Abita beers sweating on the table in front of them. They would take them to a cemetery afterwards (“A great way to digest lunch, I’m sure” Shireen had said dryly) and then tour the French Quarter.

 “What about night life? I’m a rowdy young man, I want to party til the break of dawn,” Rickon said, snorting a laugh as Jojen rolled his eyes and drank his beer.

 “Well, then, young blood, there’s going to be a really good band playing tomorrow night at this place called The Spotted Cat. Linnzi Zaorski and Delta Royale, and they’re pretty great,” Bran said before taking a huge bite of sandwich. “We should all go, there shouldn’t be too many people there on a Wednesday," he mumbled around his food.

 “You two can hobble in and not worry about breaking a hip that way,” Rickon grinned. Bran swallowed and chucked his wadded up napkin at him.

 “Dick. I’m only four years older than you.”

 

 “Are you looking at those photos again?” Sandor asked. Sansa had pulled them up on her phone again after putting Bryon to bed, and was grinning like an idiot as she swiped through them. The last one was too adorable, Shireen resting her head against Rickon’s shoulder, smiling prettily for the camera as Rickon, in what had to have been a lighting quick glance away from the road, made a goofy face from behind her.

 “Yes I am, and I’ll tell you what, honey, I feel no shame. I mean, come on, just _look_ at them. Look at how happy he is.”

 Sandor sighed and took the phone obligingly, staring at the photo for probably the fifth time since they’d sent them the day before. He did chuckle though, and she took her phone back triumphantly, settling back against his body on the couch. He kissed her temple. Sansa zoomed in a bit, more tightly framing her brother's and Shireen's faces. It was blurry, but it was probably the most beautiful picture of Rickon she’d ever seen. There was no surliness. There was youth and humor and a light in his eyes, peering over the tops of his sunglasses.

 “I know you’re happy for him. I can’t blame you for it. It’s nice to see him like that.”

 “We’ve got you to thank for it, Mr Kung Fu,” she said, adjusting to drape her legs across his lap. He slid a hand up her shin and across her knee.

 “All I did was tell him to get his head out of his ass,” he said. “I think we’ve got _her_ to thank, more like,” tapping her phone towards Shireen’s face. “Now put down your bloody cell phone and pay attention to me.” Sansa gasped and then laughed as he pressed her back on the sofa, and she dropped her phone onto the rug below, the picture of Rickon and Shireen still on the screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Spotted Cat is a real place down in New Orleans, and it's awesome. Linnzi is a great musician and I strongly urge y'all to check her out!


	18. Chapter 18

May, Saturday morning, 1:30am

  

Rickon’s head was a happy buzz of liquor and a night of bar hopping, loud blues and zydeco, oyster shooters and fried shrimp, ice cold beer, Shireen and his family. He was currently sitting in the corner of a gay bar in the French Quarter, the _vieux carre_ as Jojen called it, watching Bran and Jojen dance on either side of Shireen in the center of a dance floor writhing with bodies and pulsing with light. He laughed when she waved at him, trying to get him to dance. She shouted his name over the pounding music, and he groaned, standing and draining the rest of his beer before deciding that yes, he was drunk enough to dance with his girl.

 Bran shoved him towards her when he approached, and he and Jojen disappeared presumably to the bar for more drinks. For all the ribbing he’d given them a few days ago about being old guys, they could tie one on with the vigor of college kids, and had had no problems partying with him and Shireen the entire week. They’d gone with them to the Delta Royale gig on Wednesday and kept them out until midnight, and while they just stayed home on Thursday night, they stayed up until 3am playing blackjack, and had outlasted even Rickon, the youngest amongst them.

 He was loving New Orleans. It was a living creature, as rowdy during the day as it was after the sun set, though there was a haunting, slinking, skulking quality to the French Quarter at night, and secrets and mysteries seemed to cling to shadowy alleyways and darkened courtyards he could glimpse beyond wrought iron gates, the tinkling of mossy fountains just reaching his ears when he passed them by.  It was a city full of music and darkness and light, ghosts and devils and revelers and street performers. He was swept away with the unapologetic wildness of it. Window displays in the _vieux carre_ transitioned from gorgeous artwork to expensive antiques to vintage, spider-webbing dresses that looked as if wraiths might wear them.

 He grabbed Shireen and tugged her by the hand to a less crowded corner of the dance floor and spun her out, swing-dance style. She went willingly and laughingly, coming back only to be swung out again in the opposite direction.  He pulled her up flush to his chest and they moved in time to the music, her arms over his shoulders, mouth on his and her tongue already in his mouth. He staggered slightly when someone danced into him and he broke the kiss, laughing, and Shireen turned in his arms, pressing her ass against him, and he grabbed her hips, keeping her close as he bent his head over her shoulder.

“Little brother, I don’t need to see how you fuck,” Bran shouted over the music, as he danced over to them, two shot glasses in hand, and Shireen laughed, pushing him away. They tipped their shots back and left the dance floor then, stepping out onto the second story balcony for a breath of fresh air that was hard to reach. It was crammed with people and overwhelmingly humid, but the four of them wedged in and made a space for themselves as Rickon lit a cigarette and handed it to Shireen, lit another for himself.

“Okay, so how was your first time in a gay club?” Jojen asked over the sound of chatter around them, the whoops of laughter and cat calls from the streets below.

“You’ll have to ask someone else, buddy, Bran took me to one the night I turned 21,” Rickon laughed, and Bran nodded, shrugging to Jojen.

“I had to make it interesting for myself,” and Jojen gasped in mock indignation.

“Jerk, catting around Chicago behind my back.”

“I never would have allowed it,” Rickon said, taking a drag from his smoke and reaching over to tug Shireen’s hair. “Having fun?”

“Damn right I am,” she grinned, pulling her hair over her shoulder. He turned her around, blew a cool breath on the back of her neck, for which she thanked him. Thunder rumbled, and a few fat drops fell, though no one with them outside paid any attention.

“We should take them to Lafitte’s!” Bran said, nudging Jojen. “It’s the oldest bar in town, basically in all of the U.S. Used to be owned by a pirate, too.” He raised his eyebrows for further emphasis, and there was no reason to tell him no.

It started to rain in earnest on the walk down Bourbon Street to Lafitte’s, but as they were already so damp from sweat, and the rain was at the very least cool on their skin, they made no attempt to hurry, walking bold as brass down the center of Bourbon Street. Jojen promised it was just a couple of blocks away, slung an arm over Bran’s shoulder and started singing Fly Me to the Moon at the top of his lungs. A woman walking the other way picked up the tune as well and carried with her back towards the way they came.

The street was crowded, as Bran had assured it him it nearly always was on the weekends, but they were able to stick close with each other without too many people getting between them. He pulled Shireen close to him all the same, walking behind Bran and Jojen as they stopped to let cars cross Bourbon Street, Bran pulling his husband in for a kiss.

“Keep it in your pants, Bran!” Rickon crowed with a cackle, holding his hand over his cigarette to protect it from the rain as he took a drag.  Shireen pushed him under a small waterfall of rainwater gushing out of a second story gutter, drenching him completely and the cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

He pushed her against the darkened window of a closed store. “I’ll make you pay for that,” he said with a dark grin. She flicked the dripping hair out of his eyes.

“I’m not scared of you, inmate,” she laughed.

“You should be,” he growled, leaning in to kiss her. She relaxed slightly and he went in for the kill, tickling her mercilessly under her arms. She shrieked and wriggled free from him, jogging to meet up with Bran and Jojen.

“I’m going to need another pack of cigarettes, this rotten little shit ruined my last smoke,” he said, pointing to Shireen as he caught up with the three of them. Jojen led them to a corner market and they slipped and slid with their wet shoes on the linoleum floor, snickering and sniggling uncontrollably in the sudden harsh light of the store. He paid for his cigarettes and bumped his hip into the counter on his way out, nearly slipping and falling on his ass. The cashier muttered something about drunk idiot tourists, and Rickon spun around, wobbling only slightly with his unsure footing.

“I’ll have you know that we’re only _half_ drunk, and only _two_ of us are tourists,” he said, bowing to her with a grand sweep of his arms.

“Yeah, well, y’all’re all still idiots,” she drawled, and they all laughed, heading towards the door nestled in the corner of the storefront.

“Shit, sorry man,” Rickon said, walking smack into someone as he opened the wooden door to walk out. They spun awkwardly, Rickon ending up on the sidewalk side as the other man regained his footing on the slippery market floor. They staggered back from each other and Rickon had to blink several times, wondering if the checkout woman had been right, and if he really _was_ that drunk, because he knew the ugly, sallow face of the man who was sneering at him from inside the store, the door shutting slowly between them. “Rickon fucking Stark,” the other guy said just before the door clicked shut. Walder fucking Frey,” he muttered, and his voice was a bitter twist of steel.

 

Bran pulled his brother out of the doorway, dragging him backwards down the sidewalk as he stared at Walder. “Come on, just ignore him.” They crossed the street, putting as much distance between them and Frey, who finally turned and walked into the store, once they were across the street and on the other sidewalk. Only then did Rickon turn his head and look straight ahead where they were heading, his shoulders drawn up against the rain for the first time that night. A group of middle aged men and women whooped and hollered past them, walking in the center of the street wearing clear plastic rain covers, meandering drunkenly, and their own little group’s knot of tension clashed sadly with that of the revelers.  

Jojen made them stop under a balcony, curtains of rain creating a sense of intimacy as they fell from all three sides of the balcony above them, though the crowds were still abundant enough, even at that hour, to necessitate raising their voices to be heard. Jojen came to stand in front of Rickon. “Look, we know Sandor told you they live here now. I know that it’s really random to literally bump into him, but it’s not impossible. His family’s lived here a while. I just don’t want you thinking that he’s been bugging us. I wouldn’t have even known it was that Walder guy until you said his name.”

Rickon was silent, holding Shireen’s hand. He pushed his hair back out of his eyes and flung the excess water off his hand towards the street. Bran could see his jaw working, and Shireen was gazing at him with a deep-set frown, eyes slightly glassy from the alcohol but focused on him intently. She reached up with her free hand and brushed his cheek, glistening from the rain and the lamplight.

“Hey, Ric honey, you all right?” she asked, and he seemed to snap out of himself at the sound of her voice. Bran was thankful for her presence. _The two untameables tame each other,_ he thought. His brother cleared his throat, looking down to her, not unkindly, but lacking in the laid back mirth that had charged him just minutes before. He nodded, returning the touch of affection with one of his own, brushing the hair back from her forehead with this thumb.

“I’m ok. I’m fine, I’m just… _Damn,_ ” he breathed out a sigh. “It’s been a _long_ fucking time since I’ve seen that guy.”

“I know, man, I know,” Bran said. “Let’s go talk about it at Lafitte’s. Get out of the rain, get your poor woman dried off,” he said, smiling at Shireen who smiled back gratefully, sadly. That did the trick, however, mentioning Shireen’s comfort, and he nodded again in acquiescence.

They came to Lafitte’s and walked in, ordering stiff drinks before leading Ric and Shireen towards the back of the dimly lit bar, past the huge brick double-sided fireplace in the center of the front room. It was unique enough and old enough to swing Rickon’s interest towards it and away from Walder. Seeing him hadn’t been very pleasant for Bran, either. He’d always hated Frey since he found out he’d been beating on his youngest sibling, but seeing his face all twisted in red marks that still looked ugly nearly ten years later had been chilling, especially knowing the marring had come from Rickon.

“Ok, so talk to me, talk to us,” Bran said, leaning forward across the table from his brother. He swigged from his bourbon and coke, ice clinking against his teeth, causing him to wince slightly as he sucked the cold from them.

Ric shrugged, chased a shot with a swig of beer, lit a cigarette, thought on his answer. “It just took me right back there, you know?  I’ve said it before, I don’t feel bad. But it didn’t feel _good_ going back to that time. That little fucker used to pound on me for no reason,” he said.

Shireen frowned. “Rickon…”

He turned a sharp eye on her. “ _No reason_ ,” he repeated firmly, and she sighed with a shrug, stealing the cigarette from his fingers and taking a drag. Bran frowned at the exchange, glanced at Jojen who lifted a shoulder, confused as well. “And you know, that fucking sucked. Yeah, I cut him up, and I got revenge or whatever, but he kind of ruined my life. Except, you know,” he said, grabbing Shireen’s hand, kissing her knuckles. She smiled with a roll of her eyes, and Bran could see the comment had touched her.

“Yeah, I know. I know.”

Jojen swept in with facts about the bar, how it was considered to be the oldest _continually_ run bar in the country, how they said Jean Lafitte would do all his illegal activities there. Bran kept craning his neck around to see if Walder had followed them here, and after the third time of doing it, he caught Jojen looking at him with a frown. He shook his head imperceptibly, and Bran sighed, slumping his shoulders slightly, and tried to ditch his paranoia.

Rickon and Shireen had their heads bent together, talking, and Rickon wasn’t scowling, necessarily, but there were other things besides happiness and a good healthy buzz going on behind his eyes. _If the past catches up to anyone, it’s always him,_ Bran thought with a sigh. Seeing Walder had dampened their fun, and finally Shireen knocked back the rest of her vodka tonic and laid her palms on the surface of their table.

“This place is cool and all, but we allknow who that guy is, and he’s harshing my buzz. He’s ruining the night for everyone, so I say we go _back_ to Oz, and get really drunk and dance.  We can come back here another night. So what do you think?”

The rain had lessened somewhat during their time at Lafitte’s, and the walk back to Oz wasn’t as soggy or as crowded. Their high energy enthusiasm and effervescence was considerably muted, but there was no sight of Walder Frey, and Bran, who now walked with Jojen beside the other two, could see that Rickon had relaxed somewhat.

“Of all the fucking luck,” Bran muttered.

“Tell me about it,” Jojen said.

They got back into Oz without having to pay again, thanks to the stamps on their wrists that miraculously hadn’t washed off in the downpour. They went upstairs and waded through the throng of bodies.

“At least it’s not quite as slammed now,” Shireen shouted as Rickon ordered them drinks. He passed two shots to Bran and Jojen and when no one was empty handed, the four of them clinked glasses and tipped them back. They lather, rinse, repeated and now, feeling warmer, drier, a little fuzzier, they did their best to relax. Bran was no longer in the mood to dance, however, and was starting to wonder if they might not grab a cab back home. It was closing in on 3:30am, and while he was still a young man, he was finding it harder, by small increments, to bounce back after all-nighters like this. _Okay, one more round,_ he thought, grinning to Jojen and nodding towards Ric and Shireen, who had their hands all over each other as they made out against the wall. _Just one more._

 

Shireen was beginning to enjoy herself again; the brief confrontation in the market threshold between Ric and his enemy had rattled her, and brought back the memory of dozens of group therapy sessions, and even more instances of them sneaking off to talk together, where he’d share everything far easier and more honestly with her than with group. He’d never really cried, but he’d come close, when he was younger, and she knew that it was actually less the beatings than the alienation from his family that had been the result of those altercations. That, and the one time he’d fought back had been the one time anyone had actually paid attention to him. She’d seen a flicker of that in his countenance, sitting in Lafitte’s, and knew no one else, even Bran, would put that together. So it was back to the pounding bass and mind-shattering volume of pop songs and techno, the expensive shots and the ultra violet lights. _Better already._

She’d had an amazing time getting to know Rickon’s family here, and the city itself. She’d spent more time talking with Jojen, lazing on their crazy couch swing while the brothers did their own bonding.  She’d walked and shopped the French Quarter and Magazine Street until she was exhausted (Rickon went back to Bran’s halfway through, his mind unable to wrap itself around the notion of shopping for shopping’s sake). They rode the St. Charles streetcar though the Garden District, and though she and Rickon had well off families, the grandiose scale of some of those manses, palm trees and other tropical plants dressing the yard like jewelry, even he pressed his face to the window in wonder.

She’d sat in front of the cathedral in Jackson’s Square, eyes closed with a cup of iced coffee in her hand as she listened to a man with a trombone sing All Of Me, Rickon beside her with his fingers running idly through her hair as he smoked cigarettes in happy silence _.  I could go on permanent vacation with him forever,_ she’d thought, head sagging to rest against his shoulder, as the sun filtered through clouds and the moisture in the air to warm her face.

That was how she wanted to remember this trip, not with Rickon’s bad memories and muddy past slogging up to the crystalline surface. But after that second shot, the easy going good feeling was returning, and she let her inmate gets handsy in the club, press her back against the bar amidst the hooting and hollering, the offers to turn him to the other team; he kissed her as deeply as if they were alone and she delighted in it, in the tension leaving him. She pushed back, her palms against his hipbones, once so prominent, now flanked with muscle, back to the dance floor. “Get it, girl!” and “Take that man!” bounced around her ears and even Rickon laughed as she coaxed him into dance moves he wasn’t quite comfortable making though he humored her just the same.

 

He was losing himself once more in the drinks in his bloodstream and the woman in his arms, trusting the two of them to work their magic and help him to shake off the foreboding that had kicked him in the teeth just by laying eyes on Walder. He started doing ridiculous swing moves with her again now that the floor seemed to be clearing, and he wondered briefly how late it was and how badly his hangover would be the next morning. _It_ is _morning, jackass,_ he thought to himself, spinning Shireen out before dipping her back so deeply her head sagged back, exposing her throat, her rain-damp hair drying in those mermaid waves he so enjoyed.

The song switched and though he wasn’t keeping time to the other one, he righted her back to her feet and they moved back towards the bar and away from the other dancers, catching their breath and looking around for Bran and Jojen.

“Let’s just buy them more shots,” she yelled over the music, “I’ll drink ‘em if they don’t, fuck it,” and she laughed, gazing out towards the balcony. Rickon leaned in to the bar behind her so the bartender would see him, but she laid a hand on his forearm and squeezed so tightly he frowned down at her.

“What?”

“Rickon,” she said, pointing, and he looked. Bran was talking angrily to Walder, who had some nerve waltzing into a gay bar, and he knew exactly what was happening. There were two other men with him, one of them taller, thinner like he himself was, the other shorter and much stockier. _Harder to take down_ , he thought wildly. He stepped instinctively in front of Shireen, an arm extended back as if to keep her from bolting towards the fray. Jojen was behind his brother, looking furious, and even a few bystanders were starting to look offended and taken aback. _I know what he’s saying. I know what hateful things he’s saying, and I never once warned Bran._

“Rickon…” Shireen whimpered, and he could just barely make it out over the din, as she clutched the sleeve of his t-shirt.

“Stay here, and I am fucking dead serious, do you understand me?”

“Yes,” she said, voice louder, firmer.

He was two strides away from the confrontation when Bran shoved Walder, and he staggered back against his buddies. Rickon knew what was coming and he sprinted the handful of yards towards them, gathering his attention and his energy and yes, there it was, handy for the second time in his life, his anger. He focused them all like a laser point, and was ready when the stockier guy drew his fist back to punch his brother.

With his left hand, Rickon grabbed him by the wrist and shoved it into his face, swinging his clenched right fist hard into the man’s groin. He doubled over and as he did so, Rickon brought his forearm up against his windpipe, and the man fell, useless to the floor, moving only to curl into the fetal position. He looked around for his brother but the taller man grabbed him from behind, squeezing his forearm against his throat. He elbowed him in the gut, twice, lightning quick before he felt the prick get yanked off of him, hear the grunts he made as someone punched him, but Rickon couldn’t break free fast enough to stop the horror unfolding in front of his eyes.

Walder must have punched Jojen, who was sprawled on the floor, and Bran had spent too much valuable time checking on him, bent at the waist, hands on his knees as he asked if he was okay. Walder used this time to dash the two feet through the open French doors, grab one of the spindly wrought iron chairs from the balcony and return, swinging it high in the air and bringing it down, with a sickening crack that even Rickon could hear over the music, onto Bran’s lower back. He fell like a house of cards.

The entire tussle took less than 20 seconds.

Rickon screamed, and Walder lifted the chair to deliver another blow to his brother, who lay there, unmoving, across Jojen’s legs. Jojen was shaking his shoulder while simultaneously trying to scoot backwards on his ass, to drag Bran away with him. A thousand things flashed before Rickon’s eyes;  the different shapes of Walder’s and Alyn’s fists as they came towards his face; the feeling of that broken bottle’s neck, tight in his hand; the look on Walder’s face as he, for the first time, was the attacker; but the thing that swam up over and over again was the hateful look on Walder’s face when he was beating him and insulting his brother, and how he never once told anyone in his family, never once warned Bran.

“Look at me, you motherfucker!” he roared, and Walder tuned, chair still above his head, as Rickon bull rushed him, colliding chest to chest with him so hard the chair came down, slamming into the back of his head and shoulders before clattering with a twang to the floor. His vision blurred, but he held fast to his prey. Men were shouting, and Rickon could hear Shireen screaming. The music was gone, and he was nearly deafened with the sounds of chaos all around him, the rushing of blood in his ears. The force of his attack had sent both men backwards, through the French doors and onto the narrow balcony. A large, warm hand grabbed for Rickon’s arm, his shirt, anything, but he was slick from the rain that was falling from overhead, from the sweat he’d produced while dancing in the heavy-aired club, and those thick fingers gained no purchase.

Walder squirmed and turned in Rickon’s bear hug just in time for the railing to hit him in the gut, and he doubled over, taking Rickon with him, and the last thing Rickon heard was Shireen screaming his name before they both toppled over the balcony’s railing, and then he knew nothing more.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to personally apologize for the hate speak here. I wanted to avoid it but Walder would use it, and to use anything more kind would have been OOC. :(

May, Saturday morning, 4:00am

 

“Ned. There’s been a serious situation down here. Both boys are heading to the hospital. Both are unresponsive. You and Catelyn need to get down here. And uh, bring Sandor. Walder Jr’s is in worse shape, and word’s already spread to his father that it’s Starks that’s done this.”

Bronn ended the voicemail and pressed the call button again. He’d call and leave messages until Ned answered. He stood far back from the fuss surrounding the crime scene, the heavily dented car parked on St. Ann, the shattered windshield, the bloodstained, brain-smeared asphalt, the freaked out men and women, the angry club goers who had nothing but accusations for Walder; another fight had broken out, feelings and tempers were so high and tightly wound, even as they carried Bran down the stairs on a stretcher, even as they stabilized Rickon and hauled him off the car. _Funny,_ he thought, _this isn’t even the worst I’ve seen in my time here._

A vision of the kid bringing the first assailant to the floor came to him, along with how impressed he’d been at the young man’s ability to fell his opponent so deftly; that memory was replaced with his own belated attempt to get the second guy off his boss’s son, to free him, and then the sickening vision of Rickon escaping Bonn’s final, desperate grasp before tumbling down to the street below. He shook his head, shivered under the lazy drizzle that persisted to this hour, and left Ned another message, only for his other line to beep through. He drew the phone away from his ear, glanced down, saw who it was.

“I’m here. Yes. All four are already in ambulances. I’ll follow, but I’ll not go much farther, Ned. I played a small part, and it will be bad news to link you here even more than you already are. Yes. Bring Cat. Bring Sandor. I’m not sure how bad, but… Better sooner than later, if you understand my meaning.”

 

His right leg was fractured, but the right arm was wrecked in ways that hurt her eyes to gaze upon, and Shireen was only able to hold his left hand as she sat beside him in the ambulance. _At least he didn’t break the left one,_ she thought,looking down at it, how pale it was, how listless it lay in her hands; _he’ll still be able to write this way,_ and then she sobbed, loud and desperate in the small space, though it did nothing to open his eyes, to make him murmur out loud, to break him out of whatever it was that had a hold on him.

Rickon had a huge gash on the side of his head that was being tended to, shards of tempered glass being pulled from it, and she sat there, her fingers nearly shoved inside her mouth, staring at it because for some reason, she could stare at _that_.  It brought her back to how it had felt, his head under her fingers as she’d shaved it, the smooth scalp, so pale after being hidden under hair for so many months, and now that tender, bare skin was torn and there was blood all over, on his neck, the back of his head, congealing in his hair, and a strange spatter on his face that she prayed was Walder’s. _There are bones poking out of his arm,_ she thought, still staring at his head, at the blood staining the stretcher beneath him, his slack mouth and his closed eyes. _There are no bones poking out of his head, so I will keep looking there._   Shireen held tight to his hand, and she thought of words like _Inmate,_ and _you cannot leave me, I love you_ and _I’m home now, so you cannot take my home away. You are my home. I am home now._

 

Ned was too slow for her, and she didn’t bother waiting for him, though she knew the plane wouldn’t leave without him. How he could move so slowly, how he could move so measuredly, was beyond a mystery to her. Her two baby boys were in hospital rooms, not even together. _Because I asked that, I had to know if my boys were together._ She had to get to them. If her husband held up the plane, she’d force the pilot to take off. She’d fly there her _fucking_ self, if she had to.

She’d pushed away one child, her baby, half his life, trusting in her hunch, her biggest mistake, that he couldn’t do it with his family, had to figure it out with strangers, and had left the other to succeed on his own, trusting he would do it matter what. And now they were, what did that man say to Ned? _Unresponsive_. Her sporty, brilliant, level headed Bran. _Unresponsive_. Her sly firecracker, her mystery Rickon. _Unresponsive_.

The flight was bullshit; it was late getting there and late leaving. The very real chance to lose two children, and they were in a line for takeoff, even at this early hour. They had no luggage, only their IDs, her purse, their fear and worry, nothing else to slow them down but here they sat. Gods, _this_ was terror. She’d known plenty of maternal fear before. Arya had given her heart attack worries since she’d been 15, with the scoundrel Gendry, who’d turned out to be the best thing that had happened to her youngest daughter. Sansa… _Oh Sansa,_ she thought, drumming her nails on her arm rest, trying her best to will the plane to lift into the sky. _If it fed on my fears, it would have been airborne by now._

Sansa’s horror, her abuse and her misery and her night terrors had lasted months. Cat had thought then that nothing could match cradling a 28 year old daughter, as if she were a baby again, locked in nightmares that never seemed to end. But now, she was flying south on a plane to find out if her youngest children were still living, if one would walk again, if one would wake again.

_Unresponsive._

Catelyn bit her finger and stared out at the nothingness of early morning clouds beneath the wing. How long had her relationship with Rickon been unresponsive? It took her no time to count the years; she wore them around her soul as a tree does rings around its very center; she aged herself with those years. She felt the loss in every one. _A tree grows fatter from its rings, but my soul only shrinks._ And then she started to cry in earnest, and that’s when Ned knew to draw her from the window, to pull her into him, let her use his shoulder to muffle her sobs. 

 

“You’re going to be fine, honey,” Jojen whispered, his forehead pressed against his knees as he waited, alone, in the hallways, and he pretended they were in bed, not separated by surgeons and walls and potential death. “ _Faggot, you fucking faggot, I’m going to beat you like I beat your fucking pussy brother,_ ” kept wrapping its filthy coil around his brain, and Jojen shook his head, over and over and over again, gripping his hair, wondering: if he pulled it out, could he pull out those words as well?

A light hand touched his shoulder and he jumped , nearly out of his chair to his feet before Shireen said “Hey, it’s me, it’s me, it’s okay,” brushing a hand over the plume of purple bruise on his cheek, and then he started crying, hard. She curled up in the chair next to him, and pulled his head against her body as he sobbed, and sobbed, and she held him there until his sister Meera came, and he only knew she’d come because of the shift from left to right, from a tears-damp shoulder to a dry one, and those familiar curls of his sister’s against his face, that familiar hug, the familiar scent, her familiar and soothing voice. Jojen let loose his sorrow and his fear into his sister’s arms, until he fell asleep, but his dreams tormented him with Bran standing one moment, falling the next, and in those nightmares, Jojen felt he’d never stand again.

 

Catelyn had hesitated most of her life, when it came to her baby, her little boy, her wild wolf Rickon, but when she was shown his room and allowed inside, as Ned sat by Bran, she moved instantly, dragging a chair to his bedside, right by his head, slipping her hand ( _this old hand that never did anything_ ), into his. He was asleep, not in a coma, she’d come to learn, but still asleep. His arm was uncast, but there were nasty gashes in at least three places, rough looking stiches crossing over them, and it was slung into position, slightly above his bed.

There was a disturbingly long cut along the side of his head, a thick binding now of stitches; apparently he’d had his head shaved before the incident, judging from how clean it all looked. She’d never judged his haircut style before, but now it seemed almost macabre, as if it had been waiting for this wound. Her lower lip trembled like a fool’s, and she realized, not for the first time, and not for the last, that she’d never know him, that she never would.

Cat sobbed openly  as she scooted her chair towards him, laid her head next to his chest on the slightly raised hospital bed. The broken bottle, her little boy’s bruised face, her mistakes, her ignorance and desire to remain that way, they all threw themselves upon her like dogs, and she allowed it, let herself get chewed to pieces by her own neglect and own choices. If she had to, she’d die here, beside the son she’d for some stupid reason let slip from her grasp.  Sleep or its wicked phantom took over her, forehead pressed against the bruised ribs of her son, and she smelled him in her dreams, and he was a child again, still wild eyed, but full of smiles and easy humor. Catelyn’s slumber did nothing to staunch her tears.

“Mom. Mom, wake up,” came floating up towards her, or wait, floating down, because she was in all the hells, all seven at once. Her boys were dead; it was her fault, wasn’t it? She smacked her lips, squeezed her eyes shut tighter than they had been in sleep, and then a flood hit her, one of physical pain ( _I haven’t moved my neck in 100 years)_ and one of giddy panic of wondering if she’d truly heard what she heard. _Mom._ Cat opened her eyes, and stared at her baby boy’s feet, surprisingly elegant now they were out of combat boots.

There was a loose, weak arm around her shoulders, and she shuddered a cry as she turned her head, slowly, unwilling to sit up, to shrug off that touch of familiarity, knowing if she moved too fast that he’d draw away from her. Rickon was heavy-lidded, barely there, and maybe that’s why he’d called her mom, maybe that’s why he had his arm around her, but she’d take it. She’d take anything.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her face contorting into the ugliness of a cry that had been long suppressed. He sighed, closing his eyes, but he lifted the arm over her back in a gesture of welcoming, and she came further into her son’s embrace. “I’m sorry, Rickon, my baby, my sweet boy. I’m so sorry.” And she knew he was a grown man by the way he held her, and the way he said “It’s okay, mom, it’s okay. It’s okay.”And then he drifted off again. A nurse came, shooing her away, and as Catelyn wiped her tears on her sleeve, glancing back at her boy, she finally felt the wonderful heaviness of being allowed back in his world, even if for just that moment.

 

“Where is she?” he slurred. “Shir,” he said, coming up again from the drugs, the head wound, the nastily   broken arm, the fractured leg. “ _Shireen,_ ” he groaned.

“I’m here, baby,” she said, smiling as bravely as she could after so many hours without sleep, after so many things to deal with. There were police reports, news reporters, and one thuggish looking guy who kept drifting up and down the hospital hallway. Then, as before, came his memory. “Bran,” he screamed, and then a nurse came in, and because of that broken arm, that nasty head wound, they stabilized him, before she could tell him, before she could explain. Shireen sighed; it would happen again. She knew this, and she braced herself for it.

 

“I can’t,” Bran said, and Jojen jumped, nearly leaped out of his seat. The nurse eyed him, swept from the room as the doctor came in, and Jojen was pushed aside just as Bran finished his sentence. “I can’t feel my legs.” He stayed in the room, shoved back, as his husband panicked, flailed, fell back into oblivion, nurses rushing in, to leave him standing there, empty handed, until Meera pulled him out, back to the waiting room.

 

A _ding_ noise roused him, and Ned opened his eyes. His head was already turned towards his youngest son; he and Cat had switched shifts in the middle of the night, so he was the one greeted with a drowsily awake boy – _man_ – pressing the button for more morphine, his face pinched in pain.

“Son,” he said, and his voice cracked under the threat of tears. Ned sat forward, heaving himself to his feet, coming to the bedside. Sandor, keeping watch outside the room, glanced in and sighed audibly in relief, though Rickon was too addled to hear it.

“Is Bran dead?” He said, voice deadened from the pain and the morphine, though there was hope and fear in his half-lidded eyes.

“No, no. No, he’s not. I’ll not say he’s fine, but he is very much alive.” Ned grasped his son’s left hand. “We’ve you to thank for that, Rickon. You must know that you saved his life.”

“What’s wrong with him, why won’t you say he’s fine?” Rickon involuntarily moved his right arm and he grimaced in pain, sluggishly turning to look at it before swiveling his head to regard his father. “I can’t… I don’t remember much,” he finished weakly.

“Walder struck Bran with a chair, on his back, and did damage to his spine. They- he- They’re concerned that he won’t be able to walk again. But had you not interfered, he’d probably be dead, Rickon. Walder was intending to hit him with the chair again.”

Rickon sighed, squeezed his eyes shut as he lowered his head against the pillow, wincing as it made contact. “He hated Bran because he’s gay,” he mumbled. “That’s – um, that’s why he came after me all those years ago. I never said anything. I never told him. I may have saved Bran’s life but it’s my fault he’s all fucked up right now. If he’d known, he’d have been on guard.”

Ned sighed; he’d gleaned as much from Bronn’s account of the altercation; the man had been tailing Walder for weeks, had heard as much out of the man’s  mouth as he and his cronies had followed them to the club where the attack had happened. He squatted down by his son’s bed, looking at him intently though his eyes were still closed.

“As far as everyone is concerned, you saved his life, Rickon, and you risked your own in doing so. There are about 50 witnesses ready to say so. You protected him all those years ago, too, we all know that now. Shireen, she…” Ned choked back tears as he looked at his son, his stitched up scalp, his mangled arm, the wrappings around his bare torso, His poor, broken son, who had been broken inside long before. “I cannot- I cannot tell you how proud we are of you, son.”

“I’m tired,” Rickon said, opening his eyes briefly to look back at his father, and his voice was a faded, worn out thing, a rag whipped to ribbons by his ordeal. Ned nodded, sniffed, cleared his throat. He stood up.

“Of course you are, son. Get some sleep.” He bent over and kissed him on the forehead as lightly as possible, and turned to go check on Bran, to let Cat know their youngest had woken.

“Did Shireen leave?” Rickon croaked out just as Ned touched the door handle. He turned to regard his son with a small smile.

“Shireen is currently in the waiting room. She has refused to leave you, and would sleep at your fee,t if they ‘d let her. Would you like me to send her in?” Rickon nodded, clearly comforted with that, and closed his eyes once more. 

 

The doctor came, and he refused to let Shireen leave as the surgeon ticked off the injuries; fractured femur; three cracked ribs; broken humerus and radius, both so severe they’d broken through the skin, and the surgeon had placed titanium screws at his elbow; a concussion that looked worse than it was due to the broken windshield and all the glass they’d removed from the side of his head. He’d likely be able to walk out of the hospital in a week, though, since the fractured femur was so superficial. Rickon waved impatiently, bored already, and asked when he could go to see his brother Bran.

 

“He seriously just tackled him? Off a balcony?” Jon whispered. He and Robb were speaking together, the cousins mirroring one another as each man stood, feet slightly apart, arms folded over their chests. They were standing outside Bran’s room, where both their brother and Jojen were sleeping, the former in his bed, the latter slumped in his chair, his feet propped up and resting on the foot of the bed, inches from his husband’s.

“Yeah, that’s what everyone’s saying.” Both men looked as if they hadn’t slept in a week, though in reality they had only been there for two days, and had caught catnaps there at the hospital, and had slept for a handful of hours after grabbing showers at Bran and Jojen’s. Arya and Gendry were there too; the place was swarming with Starks.

“Gods. Who knew he had that in him?” Jon shook his head in wonderment.

“I’d say we all did,” Sandor said curtly, giving them a pointed look as he brushed past them to check on Sansa and Bryon in the waiting room. They had the good grace to look chagrined.

 

It was Shireen who bullied the nurses into getting him a wheelchair to go to Bran’s wing, and it was Shireen who pushed him down the hall in it, combing her fingers though his hair as they waited for the elevator, and he moved his head to follow the gentle pressure of her touch. The doctor told him that he was showing marked improvement, and had suffered no damages from his head injury, though because the leg fracture was on the same side as his severely broken arm, crutches would be painful and detrimental, so walking would take some time. His ribs made walking even more painful, though he could manage a very slow limp when he had to go to the bathroom, a male nurse or Sandor at his side, holding him up.

His family had all come to visit him, every last one, and they’d hugged him and whispered _sorry_ and had thanked him, but it all meant very little in the grand scheme of things. He felt he’d done his final duty to them, and he didn’t even feel like he’d succeeded much at it. But he wasn’t dead, and neither was Bran, so now all that mattered was seeing his brother, making sure he was okay, making sure Bran did not hate him for failing nine years ago, for failing four days ago. It was with this fear in his head that he was wheeled into Bran’s room, several family members stepping out of the way to let him in beside Bran’s bed.

Bran was propped up and awake, though clearly heavily medicated, and his legs were stretched out in front of him, stalk straight beneath his blanket, and it made him sick to know they wouldn’t be moving. _He was just out dancing, strolling down the street in the rain._ Rickon closed his eyes briefly, rubbing his temple.

“Little brother,” he said, and Rickon could hear the morphine around the edges of the words. That was when the tears slid down his face, and he wiped at them with his left hand, bowing his head, hiding them and himself from the rest of his family. His mother made reassuring noises, moved towards him but he shook his head sharply, making it throb, and he stared at her feet, frozen in place on the cold tile two feet away from the wheel on his chair. He felt Shireen’s hand on his shoulder, and he placed his on top of hers.

“Big brother,” he replied, and Bran smiled at him. “I’m- I’m so sorry, Bran. I’m so sorry. I never should have-”

“Never should have saved my life?”

“Never should have kept that secret from you, not when I asked honesty out of you.” That’s what had been eating at him, in his drugged stupors and his fitful sleep, his moments of clarity and everything in between. He was a hypocrite and a liar, and those things had led to Bran’s paralysis.  He opened his mouth to say all that, but it was cut off.

“You did what you did to save him from pain, Ric, and then to save his life. I’m still someone’s husband, instead of someone’s widower. Do you even understand?” Jojen brushed past Catelyn and squatted in front of Rickon’s wheelchair, forced him to make eye contact. Rickon could hear sniffling from a few of his family members, though he didn’t look around to figure out whom. He steadied his gaze on his brother in law. “For that, for Bran’s life, for my love, I will be eternally grateful.” Jojen’s eyes burned.

“So maybe, you know, you could stop fucking _apologizing_ for me being alive and well,” Bran slurred.

“ _’Well_?’” RIckon asked, gesturing to his brother’s motionless legs. “Not _that_ well.”

Bran shrugged. “Fuck it. I’ll take this over an early grave any day.”

“How can you not be angry? Angry at me? Angry at Walder?”

“Rickon, you could have died doing what you did,” Robb said. “That’s not something to be mad at.”

“What, like I’m the only one of us who would die for this family?” he said with a roll of his eyes.

“No,” his mother said softly. “But you’re the only one of us who has yet to make the offer.” Rickon looked up at her, shocked to see the warm smile on her face, the look of _admiration_ in her eyes.

“And I’m not angry, because I’m alive. You’re alive. And Walder, well…” Bran waved, his eyelids drooping heavily as his head flopped to the other side. He sighed deeply, and Rickon wondered if he had dropped off to sleep.  He finally looked up at everyone; Robb, Jon and Arya were standing against the wall. Gendry and Sandor were close to the door. His mother and father were seated in the two chairs available. _They all look so tired,_ he thought. _So sad._ Bran’s bravado was commendable, but likely drug induced; he hoped he’d not be angry on his long, hard road to what was hopefully a full recovery, if not the very least partial.

“What about Walder? Is _he_ at least paralyzed, the shit?”

“Rickon, honey, Walder’s um, he died. He died on the scene actually. You um…” Arya trailed off, spreading her hands.

“You two separated midair. He pulled you over the edge but they say you kneed him away and while you fell on the car and fucked yourself up pretty well and good, Walder landed head first onto the pavement and died where he fell, about 20 minutes later; too fucked up to be moved. He left some bits of himself on the street,” Sandor said in his unapologetic, rumbling manner.  Cat gave him an appalled sort of look. Sandor shrugged. “It’s what happened.”

Rickon let out a relieved breath, not realizing he’d been holding it since Arya had spoken. He hadn’t yet known Walder Frey’s fate, and as far as he was concerned that bastard killed himself the minute he lifted a hand against his family. He didn’t feel like a killer, but suddenly he felt fear. “The cops, have they come? Am I going to get arrested or go on trial?” His head swam with possibilities of Frey lawyers descending on him like carrion birds, feasting on the bones of his freedom.

“Like I said before,” his father said after clearing his throat in a request for his attention. Rickon gave it to him with fearful eyes. “You have about 50 witnesses who were in that club stating that you saved Bran’s life. They also say your attack was out of self-defense, that Walder was wielding a lethal weapon, and every single one of them gave the police at the scene their contact information to provide testimony should it come to that. On top of it all, you put your own life on the line to protect your brother’s. The cops questioned every eye witness, and will likely want your statement, but no. There will be no prosecution, not with the heaps of evidence against Frey Sr.’s son.”

Rickon shook out a weak laughter, and Shireen bent down, her hair a cool sweep against his face as she kissed his cheek, his temple, the side of his head that was uninjured. He tipped his head back until he found the comfort of her shoulder.  Jojen hugged him as tightly as he dared, and whispered “I wish I could have killed him myself.” It made him remember Sandor’s and his conversation, how Sandor had wished he’d killed his brother. He thought of all that Sansa had gone through, how Petyr Baelish had died behind the wheel instead of by the hands who deserved to wring the life from his throat. And then he felt a surge of relief. _Walder Frey is dead. I warned him once, when I fought back, and now I’ve shown him what my word is worth._

Bran was out like a light, and soon a nurse came in to get Rickon back to his bed. He went willingly, demanding however for Shireen to push him, as he’d not be wheeled around like some wussy, unless it’d be by the only person he’d ever been weak in front of. As he was ushered past his father, he gestured to him with his good hand. “Dad, come with me, please?”

Ned’s eyebrows raised, and he stood swiftly, or as swiftly as a physically and mentally exhausted father can, and nodded acquiescence. They went together, the three of them, the nurse moving briskly ahead of them down the hall. When they got to his room and both Shireen and his father helped him back into bed, he gave Shireen a knowing look. They’d discussed the impending conversation before, so she nodded, claimed she was hungry and going out for food.

When she left, Rickon gazed steadily at his father. He sighed, ignoring the dull pain of his ribs, and gathered his wits about him. “I know this is a crazy time for everybody, but I have to get this out right now. I’m done. I’ve… I feel like I’ve done my part for the family.” He paused, reached for his cup of water and drank thirstily, growing weary. He was desperate for another dose of meds, but wanted to get this off his chest before he succumbed to the fogginess and inevitable slumber. “I’m sick of shit being held over my head, so I want you to change the conditions of my trust and release the funds to me now. I need to figure out what I _really_ want to do with my life, plus I want to stay here while Bran recoups. Staying in Chicago isn’t going to cut it. It’s too close, too close to you guys, and I’ll never – I will never be that close, not really. It’s stupid to force something between us all when really, it died nine years ago.” Exhausted, he slumped back against his pillows, but he kept his eyes open and pinned on his father.

Ned was sitting, leaning over with his elbows on his knees, and he did not move, or blink, or react in any way as Rickon spoke, but now that he was finished, he saw the sadness and acceptance in his father’s eyes. Eventually, Eddard spoke, quietly, evenly. “When you’re out of the hospital, come back and we’ll draw up the paperwork. Cat and I can hire someone to pack your belongings in your apartment, if that would be easier. If you want to break the lease or continue to pay the rent, I’ll leave it to you. I’m so _very_ sorry, Rickon. You need to know that your mother and I are full of regret for sending you there. I know it’s too late, but, please at least know that.” He stood and paused awkwardly by the foot of Rickon’s bed before coming to a decision and leaning in to kiss his forehead once more. “I love you, son. Thank you for saving your brother’s life.”

“Anytime,” Rickon said weakly, and Ned chuckled sadly, stepping aside to let Shireen in before exiting the room. She perched on the edge of his bed next to his uninjured side, pushed the button to release the morphine for him, and ran her fingers through his hair, kissing him gently on the lips when he turned towards her. He closed his eyes and sighed again, relieved it was over, relieved it was just the two of them, which, really, was all he’d ever wanted since he had come to know her.


	20. Chapter 20

6/5/14, 2:13pm

To: Blackwater@gmail

Subject: Thank you

Bronn,

My father told me how you helped out when the shit hit the fan at Oz. I don’t know how to thank you. He said you actually quit when you returned to Chicago because you felt you didn’t do enough, but I wish you wouldn’t. You got that guy off of me, and if you hadn’t, Bran would be dead. If you’d kept me from going over the balcony, Walder would be alive. Nobody wants that alternate reality.

Tell Elder Brother that one day I’ll be back, I just don’t know when. I’ll keep practicing my storms and working on calming myself and focusing my energy. Actually, tell him I said thank you, too. He probably saved us all too.

Thanks again, man. I owe you one. Go back to work for my dad. He needs guys like you and Sandor.

Rickon

__

6/10/14, 8:43am

To: Evenfall@tarthoutdoors

Subject: Thank You and Resignation

Good morning Brienne,

I’m sure you have heard, but a few weeks ago, my brother and I were involved in a serious incident here in New Orleans. My brother was gravely incapacitated, and I myself suffered injuries as well, though nowhere near as debilitating. I greatly appreciate the extension of my PTO you granted me, and wanted you to know how grateful I am for that leniency.

I hate to do this, but even in the face of such generosity, I am reluctantly giving my resignation, effective as of today. My brother’s husband has his hands full and I don’t want to leave him alone with the task of caring for my brother, nor do I wish to leave my brother’s side at this time. When my brother in law returns to his teaching position in the fall, I want to be here to offer my support.

My time at Tarth Outdoors has been a wonderful, maturing experience, and I want to thank you for that opportunity as well. I hope my abrupt departure does not leave us at odds with each other, as I greatly admire and respect you, Ms. Tarth.

Sincerely and with many thanks,

Rickon Stark

__

7/21/14, 10:15pm

To: scarface22@gmail

Subject: re: almost out of there??

Hey canary,

Sorry it took me awhile to get back to you. I’m beat, but it’s done. The paperwork is drawn up and should process in a few weeks. I’m packing up most of my shit and shipping the stuff I’ll need, but Arya and Gendry are going to take over my lease and most of my furniture. They told me to burn my bed though, so I figure that’s a compliment to our lovemaking skills. Sansa’s taking her car back. I doubt that thing will make it down to New Orleans.

I’m doing ok. My arm still kills me, but the ribs are better, and the limp is too. I miss you like crazy. Two weeks is too fucking long. I can’t wait to get on that plane tomorrow, though I was slightly bummed when I was at the airport in Louisiana that my new screws didn’t set any detectors off. I guess I will have to work harder for negative attention.

Say hey to Bran and Jojen for me. Sansa says hi but she also says you two text each other like high school girls so she’ll probably already talk to you 358956 times before you even read this email.

 I love you. I miss you.

Ric

__

7/21/14 10:25pm

To: BlackBearTattoo@gmail

Subject: It’s me, Rickon

Hey man,

I got your email from your website. Not sure how far news travels, but since my sister lives with your cousin, I figure you’d heard. I wanted you to know that we’re all okay down here. Bran is doing okay. Not walking but there’s actually a good deal of hope. If anyone’s gonna get a miracle, it’ll be Bran. He’s got his wheelchair and is in pretty good spirits. His husband is exhausted, lol.

Anyways, I’m writing this because you once told me to not fuck it up with the girl of my dreams. Well, I did, which I know you know, but I got her back. I got my shit together and I got her back. I think you’re a good dude, and I want you to get your girl back too. Arya tells me, through Dace, that you’re still in NA, and I wanted to congratulate you. But that won’t be enough. So I worked it out with my brother in law Sandor. He’s going to meet you at your tattoo parlor next Tuesday at 5:30pm. I won’t try to intimidate you ‘cause that’s his job, but just trust me, listen to the man and go with him. He’s taking you to see Elder Brother, and EB is going to help you get your head out of your ass (he’s real good at that).

Best of luck, buddy. Go get her.

Rickon

PS the tattoo is awesome and my girl loves it. 

__

 

September, 2015

 

“Don’t give me this ‘I can’t’ bullshit, Bran, and get your ass up and on your feet,” Jojen had been trying the upbeat support angle for weeks, and Bran knew he’d been being a dick lately. Still, this tough love angle took him by surprise, and he glowered at his husband.

Feeling had returned; he could now take care of his bathroom needs by himself, and he’d been feeling sexual arousal for a good month now. He had grown used to life in his wheelchair, and had been content to just leave it at that. To accustom himself to a life bound to the chair, but when he offhandedly reported sensation in his legs to his physical therapist, Jojen had lunged, digging his nails into that hope and had never let it go. So now he was working on walking with braces in PT, and the lack of progress was pissing him off. It had been months now. Nothing better. Jojen had been coaxing, persuading, praising, generous with his love and commitment, and Bran knew he was getting greedy with it, selfish with lack of reciprocation, but Jojen’s relentless hope in the face that this just might be their life was pissing  _him_  off, now. He gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes.

“Fine, jerk, you want me to get my lazy ass up? Huh, Jojen, huh? Not happy with a crippled spouse? Fine. Have it your way.” Bran hauled himself up, ready to face plant as a way to prove to his husband that this was fruitless, that he better learn to love him as he was. He grabbed the bars on either side of him, ignoring the encouragement from his therapist, glaring at Jojen, who stood on the other side, arms crossed over his chest, an identical hot scowl on his face. Bran heaved his left thigh forward, able to feel now when the bottom of his foot hit the soft mat beneath him, and shuffled his hands forward on the bars.

To his surprise, the leg took his weight. He dropped the shitty attitude at once, and Jojen mirrored his shock as they both stared at his left leg. It had wobbled like jelly at first, long ago, a hopeless shaking and trembling that had slowly evolved to a tremor. It had been slight progress, but the leg had never taken the weight like this. Not until now.

“Holy shit,” Jojen said.

“Holy shit,” Bran said.

“I  _told_  you therapy works,” Shae said smugly. “Go on, Bran. Try the right.”

And so he went, growing weaker with each step, his arms bearing some weight, his legs bearing the brunt of it. Bran focused on his body, the parts he could feel from foot to hip, and yes,  _yes,_  there were muscles there, there were bones and tendons and sinew and flesh, and he staggered forward. Before he knew it, he was collapsing into Jojen’s open arms, Shae rushing to their sides to steady them both. He was drenched with sweat, and he was crying. Jojen was crying too, but all three of them were laughing. Jojen went down to his knees, then his ass, and Bran toppled on top of him, and there they stayed for some minutes, gasping for breath, all tears and laughter and kisses, while Shae gave them privacy under the guise of getting him a Gatorade.

“I told you so,” Jojen murmured against his ear.

“I know you did,” Bran sighed, and closed his eyes, relishing in the fact that he could feel how tired his legs were.

 

October, 2015

 

Rickon was dreaming. It was nothing like the tumbling dreams of screaming and falling, of blood and glass and  _pain,_ the smell of wet asphalt that had plagued his sleep the previous year. No, this was a new dream, one he was enjoying very much. He dreamed that he was a wolf, loping wild and free beside his brothers and sisters, his cousin too, all gray and white and black, but not as solidly black as he was. The scent of deer hit them all. Robb howled, and the rest of them joined in, Rickon with more energy and life than the rest of them combined. They lunged forward as one, six enormous beasts, through moss-covered tree trunks and slippery rocks, mist curling overhead.

The sun peeked through the tree canopy, and there was a long haired woman, half her face shrouded in darkness, sitting on a large boulder by the stream, and while his wolf pack ran past her, snarling after their four legged prey, Rickon slowed to a walk and approached the girl, who was smiling with her hand outstretched towards him. He licked her fingertips and rested his head in her lap. She ran her fingers through the fur between his pointed ears, and in real life, Rickon’s arms were swept over with goose bumps that very nearly woke him.  _No,_  his wolf self said.  _No, let me stay with her. Let me stay here, forever._  He growled, deep in his chest, and the woman laughed, a trickling, tinkling thing that mixed in with the sounds of the stream, the birds overhead, the distant howls of his family.

“Don’t. Move. A muscle.” Shireen’s voice came filtering through his sleep, and Rickon stirred, smiling despite the sorrow at being pulled from his lupine form and the beautiful woman by the stream he knew to be her. The gooseflesh returned and he opened his eyes, only to be staring up the barrel of a neon green water gun. He felt the weight of her, straddling his thighs, and gazed up to her face. She had an eyebrow arched like a sinister villain, and her lips curved in a devious grin. He blinked, but his smile broadened and he closed his eyes, turning his head this way and that a bit to sink further into his hotel pillow.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, but before the sentence ended, he was sprayed with ice cold water, and he roared in protest, snatching the damnable water gun from her hand and tossing her sideways onto the bed, and before long they were both drenched, the expensive sheets sticking to their legs as they wrestled each other for the gun.

“They’ll think we wet the bed,” she complained cheerfully from the bathroom as they packed an hour later.

“Maybe I did,” he said enigmatically, and she  _Ewwwww’ed_  with a shriek, throwing a damp wash cloth at his back from the doorway.

They’d been staying at Hotel Abbazia for three weeks, and now could prowl Venice at night as easily as any street urchin, and it was time to move on. Rickon didn’t know how many more Sunday mornings’ worth of nonstop church bells he could take, though the hotel itself, and their surprisingly contemporary hotel room, were beyond charming, as Shireen would put it.

They’d been messing around southern Europe for the better part of six months, spending most of it in hostels but splurging for rooms whenever they stayed in one city long enough for her to wait tables or he to stock shelves. In Venice he’d washed dishes, reminded the entire time of the day he worked for Arya, and she’d bussed tables at a restaurant a few nights, receiving tips once she chatted them up, revealed herself to be an American with sparkling wit, and they’d extended themselves and their money, eager to honor her American customs. Rickon could never muster that much charm.

Nomadic life suited them perfectly, but recently she had gotten an email from Sansa, saying that she and Sandor were ready, finally, to get married, and would be doing so in Scotland, late next spring, and if they were in the neighborhood to please come join them. He’d balked at first, having last laid eyes on any family (Bran and Jojen) earlier that May, not sure if he was yet ready. But Shireen reminded him it would still be another six months for him to get used to the idea, and so he’d rolled his eyes as she squealed with joy and replied back with an affirmative.

“Come on, butthead, you’d think I packed less crap than  _you_  did.” She was standing in the doorway of their room, ready to go with her rolling carry on packed, the open door against her back, sunglasses already on. He muttered and grumbled, shoved his other pair of shoes in his bag and zipped it shut with a sneer to her.

“Considering half of the shit in here is  _yours,_ my dear, I would hesitate before you taunt me.” He tugged her hair as he brushed past her into the hallway, glancing over his shoulder into their room. "I’m going to miss it here,” he said wistfully.

Shireen laughed. “That’s because it was 90 Euro a night and they brought breakfast to our room.”

 

December, 2015

 

“So what do you think?” Shireen was videoing him on her iPhone as he stood, wind whipping his face and the long hair poking out from the back of his watchman’s cap, the shorter stuff on the side of his head growing out dark against the jagged white scar that would never go away. He was leaning over the wall of Tour Beaux-Regards on the massive ramparts in the town of St. Lo in northern France. It was a gray, drizzly day, the dreary kind of day he loved, put a bounce in his step despite the aches it would give him in his right arm.

They would only stay for two days before heading up to Mont St. Michel and then over to Honfleur before dipping back to Paris and exploring the Loire valley. So far, Rickon had claimed St. Lo as his favorite, with the centuries-old ramparts, rumored to have been built by Charlesmagne, the Notre Dame tower rising high above on the raised earth behind the massive walls, clumps of ivy clinging to the old stones. It had rather taken his breath away, the moment the exited the train station, and Shireen had beamed with pride at him, happy to show him something he found so breathtaking.

“I think it’s beautiful,” Rickon said, glancing towards her and the video. He rolled his eyes when he realized she was filming him, and stuck his tongue out like Gene Simmons, lifting his hands beside his face in identical demon slayers

“Oh, yeah,  _that’s_  attractive,” she laughed. She came to his side, switching the camera view so she could see them as she filmed, and rested her head against his chest. They were identically clad in wool hats and scarves around their throats, black wool jackets keeping the wind and rain at bay.  _We look so good together,_ she thought, smiling at their images.  _We_ are  _so good together._

“Happy Wintermas, Starks!” she said, waving with a gloved hand. Rickon sobered somewhat, realizing her intention for the video, but still smiled. He lowered his chin to rest it on her shoulder, and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her cheek and looked back to the camera. Shireen saw peace in his eyes, reflected in the video playback, and she returned the kiss with one to his jaw.

“Happy Wintermas, guys,” he said, giving a little salute. “We love you.”

 

March, 2015

 

“I’ll race you,” he said, standing in front of King Arthur’s alleged gravesite within the grass-covered ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, its high, roofless walls arching into the sky. He shielded his eyes with a hand pressed to his eyebrows as he gazed up the high hill, at the Tor on top of it. It was tempting, too tempting to ignore. “Whoever loses buys the other a pint.”

“Are you kidding me? You broke your leg,” she scoffed, turning to stare at him with her arms akimbo. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Uh, excuse me, it was just a  _fracture,_  and it was over a year ago. Plus even with a broken one, mine are so much longer than yours, I’ll  _still_  win.” He looked down at her with what he hoped was a roguish grin, and was taken aback, as he usually was, with how beautiful she was, there in some other new place, eyes lit with the fearless sense of adventure and motion she’d always had, that had never before been as fulfilled. He saw it in his own eyes whenever he washed the travel off every night, rubbing his face with a towel as he gazed at himself in the bathroom mirror. It was contentment. It was being home and it was being free.

“You wish, Rickon Stark,” she said, and shoved him back before running in the opposite direction towards the Tor. He laughed, jammed his sunglasses in his coat pocket before tearing after her. He felt no pain in his leg, none in his ribs, and while his arm ached on rainy days or after hauling bags to and fro through train stations all day, it was a crisp, rare sunny day in England, and he had no baggage to weigh him down.

He caught up to her halfway up the hill, grabbing her around the waist before dragging her down to the dew-damp grass, using his own body weight to do so. Her hat flew off her head and gusted downhill from whence they’d come. She shrieked, and other tourists glared at them as they hiked past, but he rolled her onto her back just the same, smothering her laughter with a kiss. She flung her arms around him, breathed something like  _punk ass_  or  _inmate_  or  _idiot_  against his lips, and he grinned, opened his mouth to eat her words, and let himself get lost in her beneath a bright English sky.

 

May, 2015

 

Scotland was a place where they’d sprung for a decent hotel room, seeing as they had a wedding to go to and needed a decent space on which to get ready. Sansa had demanded they not spring for new clothes, that whatever they had would be fine, considering they’d been traveling for nearly a year. But Shireen refused to turn down a chance to go shopping, even if it meant she’d have to ship the expensive dress back to Renly afterwards, just to keep it from getting damaged in her suitcase.

Rickon couldn’t very well go in torn jeans and a travel worn peacoat, so he’d let her drag him to Harrod’s before they’d left London, and so here he was, standing in a crisp suit that had cost him quite a pretty penny ( _pence_ , he corrected), thinking about the perfectly good suit he’d worn to Jon's and Bran’s weddings.  _When the hell am I going to need two suits in my life?_  But then Shireen came out of the bathroom in a stunning jewel-blue dress, cut snugly enough to kill him, and he suddenly didn’t give much of a shit about having two suits, so long as he looked deserving enough to stand by her side.

His family had arrived late the previous night, and he’d not had a chance to see them. He was happy for that, before, but now that he knew they were all in the lobby, waiting for them so they could all go to the sept together, his stomach churned with nerves and he wished he could smoke in the room. He paced, fiddled with his pocket scarf, buttoned his coat and unbuttoned it, as Shireen slipped her shoes on and checked her hair in the mirror.

 He watched her, his hands shoved in his pockets to keep himself from fidgeting, with a flare of sadness, as she eyed the scars on her face, brushed them with her fingers. She caught him watching her in the mirror and he silently shook his head. She gave him a sheepish smile and lowered her hand from her cheek. He smiled and dropped his head, deciding to button his jacket again.

“Are you okay, baby?” She said, wrapping a silvery beaded shawl over her shoulders, turning to look at him.

“As long as you’re here, yeah, I am.” He held his arm out and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, tracing his left bicep with the fingers of her other hand as she always did, whether the tattoo was visible or not. They’d long ago memorized the shapes and location of their body art, those first signs of commitment, that first hint that they’d be together, always.

“Sansa and Sandor’s wedding,” Shireen breathed as they stepped out of their hotel room, Rickon closing it behind them. “In a Scottish stone sept. It’s so  _romantic,_ ” she said, and he stopped her before they got to the stairs.

“I’d marry you, you know, if you wanted. I’d do it today. I’d do it in a heartbeat.” She smiled, tipping her face back as she got on her toes ( _Even in heels she is so tiny,_  he thought with a smile), kissing him sweetly.

“I know you would, baby. But I don’t want to, and neither do you. We’re just fine, the way we are.” He held her tightly to him, kissing her back with passion.  _How well she knows me._

“We are, aren't we.” He smiled, let her go, brushing the sides of her dress for fear of rumpling her in so exquisite a creation.

“Now, are you ready to see your family?”

 They gazed at each other, and he glanced down the two flights of stairs into the foyer below, where he could hear the buzz of his parents and siblings chatting away as they waited for them. He caught a glimpse of the bottom of Bran’s braces and crutches, He heard Arya gripe after Gendry, and the rumble of his father’s deep voice as it calmed Cat down, promising her their youngest boy was coming.

He looked back to Shireen, his strong Shireen, his rock and his home. They’d be there for the wedding and then they’d be off again, maybe for Germany, maybe for Mexico, maybe drop off her dress and his suit to Renly’s in person. It was just a day, and then they’d be on their own again, the way they liked it, the way they loved it. So he pulled her in to his side with an arm over her shoulders, smiled and nodded, drawing her down the stairs with him. “Yes. Yes, I am."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I just... Ugh. Thank you all so much for reading, for sticking with it and for commenting and the kudos and support. I am in love with this story, and am so sad to see it end even though I think I gave this version of Shireen and Rickon the happiest ending they could ever have. I don't even really know what to say except something like CRYING NOT CRYING, NO YOU'RE CRYING, UGH and then just go slink onto to Tumblr and stare at Adult!Rickon gifsets all day.


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